


Howling The Moondogs

by KelpietheThundergod



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Good Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Castiel driving the Impala, Castiel in the Bunker, Episode: s08e23 Sacrifice, Fallen Castiel, First Kiss, Human Castiel, Hurt Castiel, Hurt Dean, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, I promise, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Season/Series 08, Season/Series 09, Sick Dean, Slow Burn, among other things, blink and you miss is sentient!Impala hints, there is gonna be an epilogue and it will contain smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-24
Updated: 2016-11-24
Packaged: 2018-09-01 23:54:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 41,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8643124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KelpietheThundergod/pseuds/KelpietheThundergod
Summary: Canon divergent from 08x23: Sacrifice. Fallen and slowly being eaten up by guilt for having helped Metatron empty out the skies, Castiel seeks refuge at the bunker and tries to find a way to set everything right. He clings to the one connection that he has always trusted to anchor him over the years, until it starts to crumble under the weight of all their combined responsibilities and finally disappears into the dark without a trace.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This story started out as a one-shot and then grew into something much bigger. I've been working on it for months, but due to various RL struggles, I feel like it didn't turn out as well as it could have. I hope it's not tmi if I say that I'm currently posting it from a clinic where I went to get help for my depression and PTSD. Despite my exhaustion, working on this fic also helped me, and even if maybe it could've been better, this is the best I am able to give you guys right now, and I hope you will enjoy reading. Please leave me a comment if you do, it would mean a lot me! Also, like I said in the tags, there's gonna be an epilogue, so I would advice subscribing to me, or checking here or on [my tumblr](http://kelpiethethundergod.tumblr.com) for updates.
> 
> A very special thank you, as always, to my dear friends [Andro](androbeaurepaire.tumblr.com) and [Lexa](denimwrappednightmare.tumblr.com) . Without your endless encouragement and support, I might not have been able to finish this. Also a big thank you to the DCBB mods for their help and understanding. 
> 
> A big, big thank you to my amazing artist and (!) beta reader [Jems](onceuponadestiel.tumblr.com) . You are the sweetest and incredibly talented and generous, and this fic wouldn't be what it is without you. You went above and beyond the call of duty and were incredibly patient with me. I can't thank you enough.
> 
> Jems' art masterlist can be seen [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8640610) , would be amazing if you left her feedback as well!!

 

 

_do you not see them_

_crawling on their bellies_

_their hearts at ten and two_

 

_do you not hear them_

_in the desert_

_in the dark_

 

 

The night is all around, pressing in, loud and screaming silent in his ears. The sky black and blue and streaked with burning lights. He clutches the smeary plastic of the phone receiver in his hand and closes his eyes. Hanging onto the sound of Dean's voice, as he swears into his ear, “I gotta take Sam to a hospital. Sit tight okay, don't go anywhere!” Dean sounds scratchy through the line, rough and tense and achingly familiar when nothing else is anymore.

Castiel has to swallow, “I will–” And then he's out of minutes, the call abruptly cutting off. He flinches, then slowly hangs the receiver back onto the hook, feeling bereft. _Wait for you_ , he'd meant to say.

Castiel forces himself to take a deep breath. The air is cold and smells of dust and exhaust fumes. The pay phone is right next to a gas station. He'd only been able to make the call at all because a stranger had been kind enough to give him their spare change.

There's a 24-hour-diner next to the gas station. The windows are dusty, half the neon lights proclaiming its name are malfunctioning and dark. But there's light inside, and, he imagines, warmth. His feet hurt and he thinks he's cold. There's a jingle above him when he opens the door. He looks up but can't make out where it came from. But the light inside is bright and yellow, and it is warm. He sits down at an empty table facing the street. The leather of the seat is worn and rough, nothing like what he thinks he remembers the seats in Dean's car to be like. There's nothing on the red plastic tabletop but a faded menu and a few crumbs. With the light in here, he can barely make out anything in the dark outside. Or maybe there's just nothing to see.

He turns to look around himself, searching for a distraction. So he doesn't have to think about the streaking lights, the loss and numb panic he feels festering somewhere close to his heart. The only other guests are a man and a woman. The man is wearing a trucker cap and a jacket with fur at the collar. He has his back to Castiel. The woman is sitting across from him. She's very thin, her gaze lost somewhere on the floor and her fingers twitching and trembling around the coffee cup clasped between her hands.

A waitress approaches his table. She's chewing gum with her mouth open. Her lips are very red. He declines when she asks him what he wants. “Sugar, you gotta order somethin' if you wanna keep the table.” At a loss, he looks over to the thin woman again.

“Coffee,” he says, “One coffee. My friend—he's going to come here and get me. He will pay you.”

The waitress sighs and scribbles something down on her notepad. She doesn't look convinced, but she leaves. Comes back with coffee a few minutes later but doesn't say anything when she puts it down in front of him. It's hot but it tastes very bitter. He likes the way it warms him from inside, though it seems to make the churning in his stomach worse. Castiel stares at the reflection of the diner's lights in the window for a while. There's faint music playing somewhere. He can't make out the words, or maybe he's just not really listening. It sounds soft and rough at once, lonesome and yearning.

The light is beginning to dawn over the horizon by the time Dean arrives. Castiel had to order another coffee, though he has used this second one mostly to keep his hands warm. His head has been feeling empty and full of thoughts at the same time, and a few times, he almost fell asleep sitting up. Then, finally, there's the sound of a familiar engine from outside, and Dean comes through the door. He looks rumpled, frantic, pale. Castiel immediately rises to his feet, almost stumbles in his haste to move.

“Dean.”

Dean's head jerks around, gaze honing in on Castiel. He walks over to him, gripping his upper arm as if to steady him and those vibrant green eyes peer into his own.

“Cas, you okay?”

Castiel nods, jerkily, his focus warring between Dean's touch and his words. “Yes, I am—” Then realizes he isn't actually sure how he is. He wants to reassure Dean, but he does not want to lie to him. All at once, the overhead lights are too bright. The thin woman is staring at them. Her eyes are big and bruised and very dark. Castiel swallows, barely recognizing his own voice as he says, “I don't—I don't know.”

Dean exhales loudly, tugging on Castiel's arm. “Okay, let's get you outta here.”

They're halfway through the door when the waitress calls them back. Dean swears under his breath and lets go of Castiel, “Be right back.”

Dean cranks the heating up in the car, and within minutes Castiel falls asleep with his head resting against the window. He has a crick in his neck when Dean rouses him a while later, Longmont far behind them. Dean has stopped at a gas station, he's sipping on a coffee and shoves a plastic-wrapped sandwich into Castiel's hands.

“Eat something, you're gonna feel better.”

He does, somewhat. The sandwich stops the distracting ache in his stomach, and he falls asleep again quickly. He still feels tired when they finally stop in front of the bunker. Castiel looks around at the bare trees, the damp earth, the overcast sky and is struck by the notion that he doesn't want to move. Wants to stay here in this car, with Dean, where it's warm and safe and quiet.

Dean claps him on the shoulder, opens the door on his side, “Come on, sleeping in a real bed is way better.” Castiel isn't so sure, but he moves to follow Dean. Follows him down the flight of stairs, and through a hallway. Dean checks out two of the spare rooms, pulls Castiel towards the second. Castiel isn't sure why, they both look identical to him. He feels bleary and numb and uncomfortable. Dean is saying, “I gotta get back to the hospital, you gonna be okay?”

Castiel doesn't know, but he nods. He's not sure what's on his face, but it makes Dean frown at him. Dean reaches for his hands, his skin warm, and rough and soft at once. Castiel stares at him. Dean doesn't notice; he turns Castiel's hands over, curses, “Your hands are fucking cold.” Dean's eyes snap up to his again, he lets go of his hands only to press a palm against Castiel's forehead. It feels wonderful. Dean's frown deepens though, “You're all over the place. Hang on.”

He's gone for long enough that Castiel sits down on the bed, takes off his shoes for lack of anything better to do. Sits there, stares at the floor without really seeing it. Dean comes back with an armful of blankets and a hot water bottle. Dumps them on the bed beside Castiel, “Showers are down the hall if you start sweatin'.” He deposits a water bottle and a packet of crackers on the nightstand. “Sleep it off, gonna be back in a few hours.”

Castiel tries to catch Dean's eyes, but Dean seems determined to avoid his gaze, already turning away. Castiel supposes it's for the best. There aren't any excuses he can think of to make Dean sit at his bedside and touch Castiel's hands again, at least not any sane ones. Dean is always needed somewhere, always has obligations. But, selfishly, he wishes that for once, Dean wouldn't care about them. Would stay here because he wants to.

He lies down and tugs the warm water bottle close. Listens to Dean's retreating footsteps. A door opens further down the hall. There's the sound of Dean's voice, though Castiel can't make out the words, and then Kevin Tran shouting, “You _didn't_ finish the trials?! Are you fucking _kidding_ me?!” The door slams closed again.

It's silent, then. He doesn't hear Dean move. Is just thinking about getting up to see if Dean is alright when he falls asleep.

>

The week after that is a blur. Everything is at once quiet and loud. Immediate and overwhelming. Castiel tries to use Dean and his habits and behaviors as role models, but has to give up on that after barely two days. Dean is constantly on the move; driving the fifteen miles between the bunker and Smith County Memorial Hospital, back and forth. He hauls grocery bags into the kitchen, argues with what sounds like other hunters over the phone. Unsuccessfully tries to check up on Kevin. Castiel has no idea when Dean sleeps. Dean stands at the stove and cooks, stuffs cans onto the overflowing shelf, but rarely seems to consume anything but coffee.

Just a few days ago, Castiel wouldn't have thought it strange. Now, he can't imagine sleeping less than six hours, and he can't stand the way his insides churn when he goes too long without sufficient sustenance. Guiltily, he thinks about the groceries he bought but never gave to Dean. Because he'd followed Metatron instead.

And then helped him empty out the skies.

Dean must notice something, because he sits Castiel down with his laptop on the third day. Shows him how to google, to track the news. It's easy once he gets the hang of it. The guilt, it doesn't lessen. And it doesn't help how sometimes, everything just—stops. He'd be typing something, staring at his hands, and then suddenly think they're not his. They're someone else's, and now he's stuck with them forever. He's lost his own hands, the ones he'd touched Dean's soul in hell with. He gets stuck staring at his unmoving hands, maybe for three seconds, maybe for half a minute. Until Dean turns at the sink to frown at him, “Cas, you okay?”

Dean sometimes smiles at him, seemingly unprompted. It makes his eyes light up, but he has dark smudges under them. His face looks drawn. The only time there's color on his cheeks is when Castiel comes into the kitchen wearing the sleeping clothes Dean had given him out of his own dresser. Dean turns away so quickly he bumps into the counter, knocks a dishtowel to the floor and doesn't even seem to notice.

Castiel thinks it will all get easier when Sam is here. Although he is worried, he rarely asks about Sam unless Dean brings the topic up first. Figures Dean could need some time not being reminded of his worries. It doesn't seem to help much. Dean is quiet, distracted. Castiel catches him one night, scrubbing at the surfaces in the kitchen he'd just cleaned five hours earlier. Dean rubs at his chest as if injured, even though the only fight Castiel has seen him engaging in is against dust that's not actually there.

Dean brings Sam to the bunker midway through the second week. Sam looks better, though tired and kind of out of it. Dean hovers beside him the entire time, watching his brother in concern. But he seems more relaxed once Sam has lied down in his room. He turns to Castiel, “Hey, I'm gonna make a quick run, you wanna come? We can get you better shoes and stuff.”

Castiel hasn't left the bunker except for walks around the nearby woods with an anti-possession charm shoved into the pocket of his dress pants. And although the two of them have rarely been in the same space for this long before, he feels like he has barely seen Dean. It's a very selfish notion, but he'd like to have Dean to himself for a while. He nods.

Dean's face lights up, just like that. He claps Castiel on the shoulder, kind of awkwardly. “Great, meet you at the car in ten.”

Dean turns the music on low once they've started. Throws a glance over at Castiel when they hit the main road, “How you been doing? I mean you look— _okay_.” He makes a vague motion with his hand in Castiel's direction, clears his throat. Looks back at the road, his fingers nervously twitching around the steering wheel.

Castiel thinks about it. The road is wet like it rained recently, and the air is cold. But the sky is clear and blue. So far up above. “I don't know,” he finally settles on. His voice comes out soft and vaguely sad. “I have lost myself. And I am—guilty. This happened because of _me_ , and I—” He has to cut himself off when his voice becomes strangled, fingers clenched where his hands are resting in his lap.

Dean's eyes flicker over to him in alarm. He reaches over and touches Castiel's arm, “Cas, hey. It's not your fault, come on.” Castiel's eyes burn. He squeezes them shut, tries to swallow around the painful constriction in his throat. Vaguely, he's aware of Dean rubbing circles into his arm with his thumb. Then Dean's hand is gone, the car coming to a stop. The door on Dean's side opens and shuts, then Castiel's opens, cool air rushing in. But the cold is quickly replaced by the warm and steadying touch of Dean's hands, holding him by the shoulders, grounding him. Dean is saying, “Cas, you with me buddy?”

Castiel nods, jerkily, even though he isn't actually sure he is. His vision is blurred when he opens his eyes, he has to blink to focus on Dean. Dean is crouched down beside him, still holding him up. Is peering into Castiel's eyes, smiling softly, “There you are.”

Castiel doesn't know what it is about those words, but he pitches forward. Pinches the bridge of his nose between two fingers, takes a shuddering breath. Dean has moved a hand to his knee, the other is stroking up and down Castiel's trembling back, “That's it, just breathe.”

Castiel tries, concentrates on the grounding touch of Dean's hands. Bit by bit, the overwhelming sadness ebbs away. The tears stop, and he can breathe freely again. He sits up straighter, blinks his eyes open. Dean claps him on the back, “There you go.” He takes his hands off Castiel, shifts his weight, reaches over and shuffles through the contents of the glove box. He hands Castiel a paper towel and a granola bar. Dean grimaces a bit when he gives it to him, “Might be a bit stale, but— you'll feel better, trust me.”

Castiel does trust Dean. It seems strange now, how he could ever forget that. If Dean still trusts him in return is questionable, after everything he's done. But he can't think about that now.

He wipes his face with the paper towel. It smells pleasantly of chamomile. Dean straightens from his crouch and stands, “You ready to go?” Castiel nods, even though he isn't certain. But he moves out of the car and stands, and Dean smiles at him, fleeting but warm, sunlight catching in the lighter strands of his hair and the forest green of his eyes. “Let's go.”

Castiel takes a few bites of the granola bar while Dean gets them a cart. The sugar in it cloys a bit on his tongue, but it does make him feel better somehow.

>

The WalMart is overwhelming. Everything is bright, and chaotic, and very loud. Dean is apparently used to it, because he hardly seems to notice. He does slow down and frown at Castiel though, inclining his head to try and catch his eyes, “Hey, Cas, you still with me?”

Castiel thinks he answers something along the lines of _yes, of course_ , but the labyrinth of shelves and the people shoving past them are distracting. Dean is still frowning at him when Castiel finally manages to tear his eyes away and meet Dean's. Dean is silent for a moment, seeming to mull something over. Then he reaches into his pocket, pulls out a piece of paper that's a little crumpled around the edges. “Know what, you can help. This is all the shit we need, you're in charge of making sure I ain't forgettin' nothin'. Okay?”

Castiel takes the piece of paper from him hesitantly and peers questioningly into Dean's eyes. The request comes a bit out of nowhere, but–yes, he can help. “Okay,” he says, and for some reason he feels more at ease for it.

Dean thumps him on the back, “Awesome.” He raises his eyebrows at Cas, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “So, what's first on the list?”

Castiel looks down at the piece of paper, smoothing the wrinkles out of it as best as he is able. In Dean's blocky handwriting, it says COFFEE.

“Coffee.” He looks back up in time to see Dean nod. As if there was no list, and he's just agreeing with what Castiel wants to buy.

Castiel stares at him, feeling warmed even though he doesn't quite understand why.

“Coffee,” Dean repeats. “Good. Let's do it.”

He jerks his head to the side, steering the cart that way, and Castiel follows. He stays close enough that his arm brushes against Dean's. They continue shopping like this, Castiel reading each item aloud and then mentally crossing it off the list. He notices after a while that they never go to the same aisle twice or need to backtrack. Dean seems to have composed the list in a way that ensured he could work his way down it systematically and efficiently. He must have the entire layout of the store memorized. Castiel doesn't even know where they are in relation to the exit. But he focuses on the list and it helps.

He has gotten more used to his surroundings by the time they reach the breakfast food aisle. He looks up from the list to frown at the cereal boxes that take up an entire shelf. Very little of it looks edible to him, but he is curious nonetheless. They have frosted flakes back at the bunker, but he doesn't like them. They taste bland, and get soggy too fast.

He only notices that Dean is watching him when he suddenly speaks up, “You look like a Fruit Loops kinda guy to me.”

Castiel frowns at him then, unsure what Dean means. But Dean just smirks, and then selects a box of what Castiel now realizes is a brand. Then Dean hesitates, turns halfway around to Cas and sort of squints. “Or. Honey Nut Cheerios.” He keeps the Fruit Loops but selects an additional box of another brand. Castiel watches him in confusion but Dean just adds the boxes to the growing pile of items in their cart. When he looks at Castiel again there's still that amused gleam to his eyes but his expression has softened.

“If you see something you'd like to try, just throw it in, okay?”

Castiel still feels a bit confused, but also touched by Dean's thoughtfulness. He nods.

There's barely any space left in their cart by the time they make it to the clothing section. Dean bends over and rearranges the items in the cart, “You wanna try on some shoes?”

Castiel looks down at the ones he's wearing. They're a bit dusty, but other than that he doesn't see what's wrong with them. “I like these.”

Dean sighs and straightens. “You need more than one pair, Cas.”

Castiel frowns at him. He's not sure if that makes sense. This is a temporary situation. “I won't need them when I get my Grace back.”

Something in Dean's face falls at that, but whatever it is he's feeling is quickly locked away behind his eyes and replaced by vague annoyance. “Just—humor me, okay?”

Castiel sighs, but tries on some pairs until he finds some that fit. They're not as comfortable as the ones he's wearing, but Dean assures him impatiently that they will get better with time. Castiel doubts he will even be human long enough to start wearing them, but he refrains from mentioning that. Obviously this is important to Dean for some reason, so Castiel decides to just go along with it, for now.

He's at a loss at what kind of clothes to pick, but picking stuff out for Castiel seems to make Dean increasingly flustered and uncomfortable. Castiel ends up with a mix of what Jimmy used to wear and what he's seen Dean wear. Dean only briefly deserts him in the underwear aisle, coughing out a “Just go with whatever you like”, all the while avoiding Castiel's eyes.

Castiel has no idea what he likes.

He doesn't quite understand why Dean is so embarrassed now, since the underwear he's wearing now is from a package that had appeared in his room on the second day, together with a couple of t-shirts he's been using to sleep in. Once again overwhelmed by the wide selection, Castiel grabs a few packages of white boxer briefs and decides that they will do. Dean doesn't comment on them when Castiel walks back to him and places the underwear in the cart. He doesn't even look up, typing something on his phone.

“Sam's awake, we better head back soon.”

Castiel feels strangely disappointed at that, even though he is quite ready to leave the noise of the WalMart behind.

Dean pays with cash–a lot of cash. When they load the bags in the car, he explains, “Not real smart to use a fake credit card this close to home.” Then he mutters something about needing to drive out and hustle some pool soon. He falls silent after that, doesn't even turn on any music when they start the drive back to the bunker.

Castiel is grateful for the quiet. He leans into the comfort of the bench seat and watches the scenery fly past. When Dean pulls up at the bunker's entrance, he doesn't get out the car right away. Castiel notices it only when he's already reached for the door handle on his side. He pauses then and looks at Dean questioningly.

Dean is rubbing a thumb over the steering wheel where he still has his right hand resting on it, his eyes fixed at some point just above the dashboard. When he becomes aware of Castiel staring at him, he shoots him a quick look, then shifts in his seat and clears his throat. He sounds nervous when he says, “Cas, look—” He licks his lips, takes his hand off the wheel and turns his body a little towards Castiel. “Look—we're gonna get your Grace back, okay, we will. But. Can it wait, like, a couple days?”

His jaw is tense and he still won't quite look at Castiel. It must take Castiel too long to answer, because Dean adds, hasty and almost pleadingly, “It's just, Sam's still on the mend and Kevin needs, I dunno, just to be angry for a while I guess. So, can you manage? For a while?”

Finally, Dean looks at him properly. His eyes are glassy and tired, but the look in them is urgent. Castiel isn't quite sure what Dean is so worried about. Maybe Castiel's near breakdown earlier shook Dean more than he let Castiel see. But he is feeling somewhat better now, though he can't quite say why that is. He lets Dean know as much, nods and says, “I can manage.”

Dean seems to deflate at that, like Castiel took a huge weight off his back. He claps Castiel on the shoulder, one corner of his mouth tugging up in a lop-sided smile. “Course you can. C'mon, let's get this stuff inside.”

>

Dean gradually becomes more relaxed over the course of the next few days, and Castiel feels some tension in himself ease that he hadn't even been fully aware of. The dark smudges under Dean's eyes become less pronounced and he actually joins Castiel for meals. The first time Sam feels up to eating dinner at the kitchen table with them, Dean seems downright ecstatic. Sam grants Castiel a warm if exhausted smile, “How are you doing, Cas?”

Castiel pauses and thinks for a moment, going through a few possible answers in his mind. He could say that he doubts he'd ever get used to urinating if he stayed human, or that he finds having to eat constantly annoying. But things seem to be looking up for everyone, and he doesn't want to ruin the mood.

“I'm fine,” he settles on, which he supposes is more or less true. He stirs his fork through his noodles. “I'm trying to decide whether I like tomato sauce with cheese or with meat better.”

Sam makes a face at that, some confusing blend of amusement and disgust. “You should try vegetables.” He shoots a stern look at Dean then. “Right, Dean?”

Dean looks up from where he'd been preparing a plate to leave in front of Kevin's door. He has an expression on his face that looks like what Castiel has heard people describe as _a deer in the headlights_ , but then he shrugs, a smirk tugging up the corners of his mouth. “Right. Vegetables. Like ketchup.”

For some reason, that only deepens Sam's scowl. “Dean, he needs _healthy_ food. Vitamins. You can't just decide—”

Castiel interrupts him then, feeling the need to defend Dean. “It's quite alright, Sam. I can take care of myself.” Then he adds, to make his point clearer, “And I think Dean is a very good cook.” He wants to say, I trust his judgment, but the word _trust_ feels like a misstep in the conversational minefield between himself and Dean, so he refrains.

Dean clears his throat and turns his back to them again, fussing with the cutlery for Kevin. “Cas, buddy, you’ve got absolutely zero baseline for comparison.” But the tips of his ears have turned pink, and there's an undertone to his words that makes Castiel think he's secretly pleased. It's endearing, and Castiel finds himself smiling softly, unreasonably intrigued by this rare display of shyness from Dean.

Sam just huffs in irritation and rolls his eyes, turning his attention back to his own plate.

>

Kevin's behavior progresses in so far as that he comes to the kitchen and fills his own plate when Dean has cooked, but he still doesn't eat with them. Not that they eat together every day—Dean often cooks early in the morning or late at night, and then just leaves everything on the stove or in the fridge for them to heat up whenever they want. He sometimes disappears for hours. Sam tells him Dean is most likely down in the garage, but there's something in his tone when he says it that makes Castiel hesitate to seek Dean out there.

One day they are both in the kitchen and eating lunch when Kevin comes in. Dean frowns at him and says, “Kid, you know there are showers down the hall, right? You look like a caveman.”

Kevin only glares at him, fills his plate and then leaves without looking at either of them again.

Dean sighs, tapping his fork against his plate with a frustrated expression.

Later, when they are cleaning the dishes and Castiel is standing beside him and drying, he asks Dean about it. Dean's shoulders slump and his expression becomes pained. “I dunno, man. Kid's had a rough time, I get him being angry.” Dean is wiping a sponge over a plate, the movements of his hands slow and careful. Castiel finds himself so transfixed by it he almost misses Dean's next words.

“Thing is, Kevin's had a normal life. The kinda life I don't—” He clears his throat, shrugs. “Whatever. Point is, I dunno what he needs to hear, or do, to get used to—” he makes a vague gesture, water dripping off his hand, “—all this, this kinda life. I'd put Sam on it, he's better with the talking and all that crap, but—” He shrugs again, wipes over the plate one more time and then hands it to Castiel without meeting his eyes.

Dean didn't finish his sentence, but Castiel thinks he knows where it was going. Sam has become almost as withdrawn as Kevin, either holed up in his room or out somewhere now that he has his strength back. Castiel isn't sure he knows Sam well enough to judge whether he just needs some quiet or if it's something else. Dean is obviously worried by it, but as long as Castiel has known him, he's always been worried about Sam. That Dean thinks he isn't worth talking to irks Castiel somewhat. Some of his conversations with Dean have made Castiel rethink everything he had taken for granted. But he doesn't feel like arguing, so he just says, gently and after a pause, “I've always enjoyed our conversations, Dean.”

Dean shoots him a surprised, almost vulnerable look. But he smiles a bit, “Thanks, Cas.”

>

Dean wants to do some laundry after they are done with the dishes, but he waves away Castiel's offer of assistance. Housework isn't particularly exciting, but Castiel likes to be of help with it. Even more so because Dean seems to actually _enjoy_ it. For some reason, it appears to calm him to clean the kitchen every day and perform other mundane tasks like putting groceries away. It's a stark contrast to his brother, who doesn't seem to care if they have fresh milk and has gotten increasingly irritated, accusing Dean of “nesting” rather than going out and doing their job.

Each of the arguments between them reminds Castiel of his own guilt. But he doesn't know what to do yet, how to fix it. Somehow, several weeks have already gone by since he's fallen, and he's barely made any progress. The most of what he's gathered by reading through endless news reports and their frustrating lack of useful data is that the angels have formed several fractions, which makes sense since they're ingrained to follow orders and act logically. But none of that tells Castiel how they feel, if he could help them somehow. If they hate him for what he's done.

He's been sitting in the library for over two hours now, checking the news but mostly just staring into space and thinking. It's likely that he's not going to get very far without his Grace; he wouldn't even be able to get into Heaven. His brothers and sisters won't even see him as one of their own without it, and he is of no help to them like this. Being human is slowing him down, making him weak, and dependent on things like food and water. He's wasting hours every day just _sleeping_. But less sleep means he'd be even more useless. And above all, humanity is _distracting_. Castiel had never understood the craving for food before, never had to force himself not to stay half an hour under the stream of the shower just because of warmth and great water pressure. And even when he's managed to resist, when he's won those fights for a day, it doesn't mean anything. Because the next day, he's going to have to face it all again, and the day after that, and so on. The mere notion of having to live like this until his mortal life comes to its end is terrifying.

He has to forcefully stop his thoughts from straying further down that path now, he takes the laptop and decides to seek out Dean.

Dean himself is a distraction as well, but Castiel finds that he draws comfort from Dean's presence. Maybe it's the way Dean is never helpless. He's always doing something, and always seems to just _know_ what to do. Castiel doesn't need or want Dean's help with the angels, because it isn't Dean's fault or responsibility at all. The last time Dean was anywhere near the angel tablet Castiel had beaten him half to death. It's a memory Castiel has shoved down as deep as he is able, because he doesn't believe he can ever forgive himself for it. No, he wants Dean as far from angels like Naomi and Metatron as possible.

He doesn't need Dean's help. He just needs Dean to anchor him.

He finds Dean in the kitchen and in the middle of a half-hearted argument with Sam that seems to revolve around Dean ironing Sam's shirts with beer. Castiel hesitates in the doorway for a moment, then decides to come in anyway and walks past them to sit at the table. If they don't stop arguing, he can leave again. He doesn't like it when they fight; it leaves a heavy tension in the air and makes Dean's smiles strained and fleeting. He knows it probably isn't very fair, but he really wishes Sam would either calm down or go and leave Dean alone, so Castiel doesn't have to retreat to the library again but can stay here and research in peace while Dean is nearby.

Unfortunately, their argument segues right into Sam demanding Dean stop what he's doing right now because they have more pressing matters. Castiel looks up in time to catch the guilty look that crosses over Dean's face. He's avoiding both Sam's and Castiel's eyes, and the way he's moving the iron over the dark suit jacket spread over the board becomes stilted and uneven.

“Sammy, look—just a couple more days, alright? You're still on the mend, and we can't just leave Kevin alone. And I'm sure Cas wouldn't mind some more time to get used to stuff. Right, Cas?”

It irritates Castiel a bit that Dean appears to be trying to use him as an excuse, but the pleading look in Dean's eyes when he turns his head to finally look at Castiel makes the reprimand die in his throat. “Yes,” he says instead, addressing Sam with a calm if forced smile, “A few more days might be good.”

Sam, if anything, looks more irritated. But his expression closes off and he doesn't say anything else, just shakes his head and leaves.

Castiel goes back to reading his article—something about freak storms in Arizona—but he finds he can't quite focus on it like before. His ability to concentrate seems to have significantly lessened since he's lost his Grace. Frustrated, he tries to start again from the beginning, but then he hears Dean sigh and looks up.

Dean has stopped ironing, is pinching the bridge of his nose with his eyes closed and his shoulders slumped. Concerned, Castiel stands up and walks over to him. Dean flinches when Castiel lays a hand on his shoulder, as if he hadn't even heard him approach. But then he relaxes into the contact and even leans into it, smiling a small brittle smile at Castiel. He looks tired, his cheeks pale and his eyes glassy.

“Dean—,” Castiel starts, but then Dean shifts away from him, his smile widening though it doesn't quite reach his eyes.

“Cas, have you tried pie yet? You haven't, right?” He turns his back to Castiel and starts opening cupboards, pulling out various items and cooking ingredients. “How 'bout we whip us up some good ol' blueberry pie, huh? C'mon, I'll walk you through it.”

And Castiel shouldn't say yes. Shouldn't let Dean distract him. But Dean's bright and very much fake smile is tinged with an edge of despair now, his movements almost frantic, and Castiel can't find it in himself to take away the peace Dean is so desperately clinging to, no matter how false a peace it is.

>

They leave the pie on the counter to cool once it's out of the oven. Castiel feels like he's been more of a hindrance while preparing it than anything else, but Dean doesn't seem to have minded. He's relaxed, his cheeks flushed and his movements steady as he cleans the kitchen up again. He had explained everything they were doing in detail, but Castiel doesn't tell him he probably won't remember any of it. Baking a pie isn't useful knowledge to an angel, which is what Castiel is inevitably going to be again.

There's also the issue that Castiel's thoughts wandered from one topic to the next while he followed Dean's instructions, and more than once he found he had lost his train of thought when Dean's fingers brushed against his or he swayed too far into Castiel's space. Dean seems to be radiating heat, even more so than usual, and Castiel is in the middle of contemplating if that's just his imagination or not when Dean asks him a question.

“You know you can take a break, right?”

Castiel looks up from where he'd sat down at the table and powered the laptop back up again to continue his research. Dean is standing with his back to the stove, twisting a dish towel in his hands.

Castiel draws in a breath and leans back in his seat a bit. “Dean, this was my fault. I can't just abandon my brothers and sisters and do nothing.” He swallows painfully and has to look away for a moment.

Something in Dean's expression softens then and he comes over to sit down opposite Castiel at the table. Castiel watches him, and a strange thought crosses his mind that if the laptop weren't between them, he could put his arms on the table like Dean has done and if he then leaned forward a bit, their hands would touch.

“Cas, this ain't your fault. You were tricked by this fucking douchebag.” Dean has said variations of this to Castiel before. He wants to make Castiel feel better, because Dean is a kind person and Castiel knows that. He also knows that Dean is wrong about this. But he likely won't be able to change Dean's mind, so he just shakes his head.

Dean sighs, then he turns the laptop around and draws it closer towards himself. “Tell you what, I'm gonna make you a compromise. I check these reports for you and if anything screams angel crap at me I'm gonna let you read them, okay? But if not, you let it rest for today.”

Castiel contemplates that for a moment and finally nods. Dean knows what to look for, he's the one who taught Castiel how to research like this in the first place. And these are the last news sites for the day. After that, he wouldn't know what to check anyway.

He gets up and starts making some coffee while Dean reads. Now that he can both taste it and is actually affected by caffeine, he finds himself immensely grateful humans learned to chew the berries of the coffee plant from watching the goats all those thousands of years ago.

Dean smiles at him when Castiel hands him a cup of coffee like he agrees with Castiel's unvoiced musings.

Half an hour later, Dean shuts the lid of the laptop and shoves it aside, shaking his head. “Nope. Nothin'. Weirdest I found was a weasel riding a woodpecker in full flight, and that don't sound very angelic to me.”

Castiel squints at him over the edge of his cup. “You're making that up.”

Dean huffs out a breath of laughter and shakes his head, then drains the last of his coffee. And then he yawns, and rubs his knuckles over his eyes with an almost child-like air of grumpiness. “I swear I'm getting immune to this shit. Think I'm gonna go lie down for a bit, you good here?”

Castiel wraps his hands around his cup and looks up at Dean, who has already moved to standing. “Of course, Dean. I'm fine.”

Dean licks his lips, something he does so frequently Castiel is starting to suspect it's a nervous habit Dean's not even consciously aware of. But then he just nods without looking at Castiel, stuffs his laptop under his arm and leaves for his room.

Castiel stays in the kitchen for a while longer, finishing his coffee and then putting both his and Dean's empty cups into the sink.

He doesn't feel like reading—doesn't feel like sitting around inside, so he goes for a walk.

It's getting late; the sunbeams cutting diagonally through the trees are the color of deeply burned orange, making all the edges appear sharper and the shadows deeper. It's beautiful.

He walks further up the hill for a while, finally sits down on the trunk of a fallen tree so he can look up at the sky without fear of stumbling over a root. It's cloudless today and a few birds of prey are circling up above, so high they're barely discernible as more than tiny black dots.

It's soothing and peaceful to just watch them for a while and listen to the wind in the trees, but when he becomes aware of that he instantly feels guilty. Here he is, looking up at the sky and enjoying it, while all his brothers and sisters must be doing the same, but with anger and despair in their hearts. Castiel has no right to enjoy this, to hide and enjoy _living_ while the other angels suffer because of his foolishness. He swallows painfully and exhales a ragged breath, lets his gaze fall to the forest floor. What was he thinking? Why did he listen to Dean?

Every second of being human means being tempted, and Castiel has lost himself in his own growing humanity so far already that he stopped noticing it, fighting it. He has to be more careful.

He walks back to the bunker quickly, focused on his feet, angry with himself. It can't go on like this. He isn't used to being this stationary, to living so _confined_. He was just too distracted to really notice it thus far. Too overwhelmed and uncertain to focus on what he is supposed to do, which is fixing his mistake. Bringing his people back home.

He's already on his way to the kitchen when he remembers Dean took the laptop with him when he went to his room. Castiel curses under his breath and thinks. Sam has a laptop as well. He might lend it to him for a while.

He knocks on Sam's door and hesitantly opens it when no one answers. Sam's bed is unmade but empty, the lamp on his desk throwing a circle of light on the neatly stacked files there. The laptop is sitting in the middle of the desk, and Castiel hesitates a moment. But if Sam isn't okay with Castiel using it he can apologize to him later.

He's too impatient to go all the way to the library, so he sits down in the uncomfortable chair at the desk and powers the laptop up. The last news site Castiel had been on before Dean had asked him to take a break had the article with the storms on the top of the page. He hadn't read farther than that because he'd let Dean check the rest of the reports.

He has barely scrolled down when a headline catches his eyes and he freezes. A strange ringing starts in his ears while he reads and his fingers curl into fists. Anger surges up within him, bright and burning, and he slams the laptop closed, sits up so fast he almost topples over the stool.

He finds Dean mostly by accident. He had meant to go to his room and confront him, but he must have taken a wrong turn. He walks past the kitchen and there Dean is, standing with his back to Castiel at the counter where they left the blueberry pie to cool. There's a knife and a single plate beside it. Dean turns halfway around when he becomes aware of Castiel, an amused smile tugging up one corner of his mouth. “Was just about to go find you. Think the pie is cooled enough by now, you wanna try a—”

Castiel doesn't listen to him, forces the bitter words out through his teeth, “Why did you lie to me?”

Dean falters and blinks, shifts on his feet and frowns. “What are you talking about, Cas?”

Castiel hisses in irritation and takes several steps forward, “You told me there was _nothing_. Sixteen people are dead Dean, their eyes burned out of their skulls!”

Dean swallows and licks his lips, his gaze falling somewhere to Castiel's feet. “Cas, look—there's nothing you could have done. Our best bet is finding a way to reverse the spell, but until then—”

He trails off, but Castiel thinks he knows where this is going and he narrows his eyes. “I should just _stay_ here and _wait_?”

Dean must detect the incredulity in his tone but he nods, “Pretty much, yeah.”

Castiel takes a breath. “No.”

Dean grimaces, holds up his hands placatingly, “Cas, listen—”

“No. No, Dean.” Castiel shakes his head, forces in a deep breath and sets his jaw. “I know you mean well, but I can't stay here and do nothing while my fallen brethren are suffering for my mistakes. I shouldn't have called you, I shouldn't have come here at all.”

Dean goes completely still. There are spots of color high on his otherwise pale cheeks and he's finally meeting Castiel's eyes. His voice sounds scratchy when he asks, flatly but almost fearfully, “Cas, what are you saying.”

His nails are digging painfully in his palms, but Castiel sounds calmer than he feels when he replies,

“I'm going to sleep now. And in the morning, I'll leave.”

Dean stares at him as if he can't quite process those words. His hands flex at his sides and he almost sounds like he's pleading when he rasps out, “Okay. Okay, but I'll come with you. Sam can stay here with Kevin and—”

Castiel shakes his head. He averts his eyes, frowns at the wall to his right so he won't see if Dean looks sad, or disappointed. He can't let Dean influence his decision.

“No, Dean. This is mine to fix, not yours. There's nothing you can do. Please don't try and persuade me, I have made my choice.”

There's nothing but silence for a long, drawn out moment. Castiel stares at the wall and grits his teeth. He doesn't quite know what he's even waiting for.

Finally, there's a shuffling sound and when he looks up Dean is leaning with his back against the counter, dragging a hand over his face and successfully hiding his expression when he nods and says, “Okay. But, hey, you haven't even eaten dinner, we could still—”

But this is another distraction he doesn't need. The less time he loses, the better. “I'm not hungry, Dean.” He turns around and walks out of the kitchen. When he reaches the end of the corridor, he briefly thinks he hears the sound of something hitting the ground and splintering apart, but then it's silent again and he reaches the corner and doesn't turn back around.

>

He cannot sleep.

The bag he's packed is sitting beside the door, his trenchcoat neatly folded on top of it. He will leave most of his clothes behind. Hopefully, very soon be won't need more than one set anyway.

It's not that late yet, but he figures if he goes to sleep now, he will be able to leave early in the morning. But his mind is still in turmoil, and he turns and tosses from one side to the other. Finally, he admits defeat, flicks the bedside lamp on, lies down on his back and stares at the ceiling. He tries for a while to focus on planning his next steps after he leaves here tomorrow, but his thoughts circle and slip away from him and he doesn't get very far. He must doze off at some point, because he is woken up by the slamming of a door followed by the muffled sounds of raised voices down the hallway.

He blinks against the light of the bedside lamp and wavers for a moment if he should find out what is going on or not. It might be nothing, or it might be an emergency. He rolls out of bed and pulls the suit pants back on that he had taken off earlier, adjusts the shirt he had been sleeping in and then goes out into the hallway on bare feet.

He doesn't have to go far until he can clearly make out Sam's words, and they make him stop in his tracks.

“—was a mistake. You shouldn't have talked me out of it, Dean. Everything we did, everyone who _died_ in the name of making this happen, they died for _nothing_. And from where I'm standing, it looks like you don't care about that at all!”

Dean's reply is too quiet for him to make out, and he takes a few steps closer. He can see them now, Dean standing in the entryway to the kitchen and Sam in the hallway, towering over his brother with his mouth forming a tight line. Dean has his arms crossed, a frown on his face. They don't seem to have noticed Castiel at all.

“You would have _died_ , Sam. You can't expect me to—”

But his brother cuts him off with an impatient gesture. “No, stop. Stop, Dean. I know where you're going with this, and it all boils down to the same issue—I was okay with dying for this, and you weren't. And since I obviously can't trust you to respect my choices, I'm drawing the consequences from this.”

Even from this distance, Castiel can see the tightening of Dean's jaw and shoulders, the way he withdraws into himself. Dean is afraid. Castiel should leave, he has no business listening in to the brothers' disagreements. He's about to turn around when Sam says, his voice firm in a way that brooks no arguments, “I'm going to go through the trials again, and this time I'm doing it far away from you. Maybe you can live with your mistakes, but I can't. I'm going to fix this.”

Dean doesn't reply, just swallows convulsively and averts his eyes. Sam bends down to pick up the bags Castiel is only now noticing.

Dean finds his voice again when Sam is already about to turn around, and he sounds as hoarse as if he had been screaming. “Sammy, c'mon. You only just got better, you can't do this on your own.”

Sam stops and audibly draws in a breath, but he shakes his head. “Dean, stop using caring about me and the others as an _excuse_. It's not caring what you're doing, it's smothering people. And that is exactly why I need to this on my own.” He hoists his bags over his shoulder and turns around, “Take care of yourself, Dean.” He walks down the corridor, his back to Castiel and Dean. A few moments later, the bunker door slams shut.

Dean doesn't go after him. He just stands there, staring at a spot on the floor and blinking every few seconds. His shoulders have slumped and curled forward, and he's rubbing a hand over his chest. Castiel doesn't know what to do. Should he give Dean a moment to himself or go over and try to comfort him? But what would he even say? With their argument earlier, he's not sure where they stand. Would Dean even want to see him?

Dean takes the decision out of his hands by suddenly moving forward and away from Castiel. It takes Castiel a moment to catch up to the suddenness of it, and by the time he rounds the next corner Dean has disappeared. Frustrated, he checks the library and the war room, but Dean isn't there. He calls for him but receives no reply. Dean shouldn't be alone right now. But what is Castiel supposed to do if he can't even find him?

Castiel finally trudges back to his room. He leaves the door wide open, pulls on some socks and lies back down without taking off his pants. This way, he will hear it when Dean goes to his room and won’t have to waste any time getting clothed. He lies there facing the open door and listening out for any sounds for a long while, falling asleep to silence.

>

The next morning, Castiel knocks on Dean's door. He opens it when no one answers, only to find the room empty. The bed is made neatly, the covers clean and undisturbed. Dean likely didn't sleep in it at all. He checks the kitchen, the library and every other room he can think of until it occurs to him that maybe Dean left. He's already on his way to the exit to check if Dean's car is still outside when he remembers Dean mentioning he had parked his “Baby” in the garage about two days ago. Castiel almost gets lost in the labyrinth of hallways but finally he finds the stairs that lead further down.

The garage turns out to be much bigger than he had expected, but it's easy to spot the familiar shape of the Impala among the other classic cars. She is alone though—Dean isn't there.

Castiel walks up to her regardless, lays a flat palm on her roof.

“Where are you, Dean?”

He stays there for a while, feels the surface of the roof warm under his hand and thinks. Castiel knows how much this car means to Dean. Dean would never drive another given the choice, and Castiel doesn't believe he would ever willingly leave her behind. So he must either be in the bunker somewhere or be planning on coming back soon.

Castiel is about to turn away from the Impala and head back upstairs when his gaze falls onto the radio inside the car. It hits him then that he has overlooked what should be most obvious–he hasn't tried calling Dean. He hurries back upstairs and hunts down one of the spare phones, only to hear Dean's phone ringing from the direction of the kitchen. Dean hasn't come back though, it's just his phone, lying abandoned on the counter.

Defeated, Castiel decides to make himself some coffee and toast some bread. He slathers peanut butter and jelly over it, leaning against the counter whilst he eats. It can only be due to his worry and the uncertainty of the whole situation, but the kitchen seems different without Dean in it.

Consuming something without tasting every single molecule of it is something Castiel is still getting used to, but the bread and the coffee taste blander today. It unsettles him.

When he makes to throw the coffee filter in the trash, he finds the pie he and Dean made already there, as well as the shards of what looks like a broken plate.

Only a week ago, Dean had gotten quite irritated when Sam left the bottle of milk out and it went bad over night. Dean cherishes food, and he hates wasting it.

The sight make Castiel's chest feel tight. It also reminds him that he had planned on leaving today, but there's absolutely no thinking of it until he knows for sure that Dean is okay. No matter their respective obligations or their occasional differences in opinion, Dean is his best friend.

He takes a shower and changes into fresh clothes, the mindless and repetitive motions of it soothing his worry momentarily. But when he's done, he becomes aware again how big and silent the bunker is without other people making it comfortable with their presence alone. Kevin hasn't emerged from his room yet, and seeing as it's still quite early, Castiel decides not to wake him. Dean has occasionally tried checking on Kevin when he felt they hadn't seen him in too long, but it only resulted in arguing through the closed door before Dean finally threw his hands up in defeat.

Castiel feels too agitated to stay inside and finally climbs the stairs leading to the exit. He opens the door and steps outside, only to stop in his tracks when the door collides with something soft and there's a low moan to his left.

Dean is curled up behind the door, leaning with his left side against the rough cement wall, his eyes closed. The door had collided with his legs.

None of what Castiel is seeing makes any sense, and for a moment he is too stunned to react. Then he moves forward so fast he almost stumbles, crouches down in front of Dean and shakes his shoulder.

“Dean, what's wrong, what happened?”

For several long, painfully frightening seconds, Dean doesn't react. Then, he blinks open bleary and blood-shot eyes that don't quite focus. Black smudges are under them, and there's color high on his cheeks, but the rest of him looks deathly pale. “Dean, what's wrong?” It's like he doesn't even hear Castiel. Dean stares at him without recognition for a moment and then his eyes slide closed again.

Castiel shakes him again, but stops when it only makes Dean moan as if he's in pain. Dean's hand is very cold when Castiel touches it, but his cheeks are clammy and his forehead is hot. “ _Dean_. Dean, how long have you been out here?”

Dean opens his eyes, albeit briefly. He sighs. “Two a.m.? Dunno.” His voice is soft and threadbare, barely above a whisper.

Castiel curses under his breath. “Dean, you're sick. We need to get you back inside.”

Dean doesn't react to his words at all, so Castiel sets his jaw and makes to slip his hands under Dean's arms to heave him up by the armpits. Dean shrinks away from him then, curls further into himself and shakes his head. “No. No, I wanna—I gotta stay here.”

Castiel sits back on his heels and takes a breath, forces his voice to stay calm despite how increasingly alarmed he's feeling.

“Dean, what do you mean you have to stay here?”

It doesn't look like Dean is going to answer at first, but then he moves his hand to press over his heart and leans more of his body against the cement wall. “'Cause's cold. Hurts less when it's cold.”

Castiel frowns at him and tries to comprehend this. Tries not to think that the fever might be getting high enough to make Dean delusional.

“Were you already sick before you came out here? Dean, this is not a healthy manner of dealing with a fever. You need to come back inside.”

But Dean only peers at him in incomprehension, as if not even aware he's been burning up. He weakly tries to shove Castiel's hands away when he reaches for Dean again, but the fight goes out of him when Castiel pulls him to his feet. He leans heavily against Castiel's shoulder, a hand brazed against his head as if he's dizzy. Castiel tries to make him move forward by putting a hand on Dean's lower back and pushing gently, but Dean only starts to sway and then his knees buckle under him. He goes pliant when Castiel gets an arm around his back and under his knees and lifts him, his head falling against Castiel's chest. His eyes are closed, and his uneven breaths are hitting the side of Castiel's neck.

Castiel's back and arms soon start to ache painfully, but he makes it down the stairs and carries Dean all the way to his room, carefully lying him down on his bed. Dean's room is the safest place Castiel can think of, and the best one for Dean to wake up in.

Dean appears to have fallen asleep. His mouth is slack and slightly open, his forehead sweaty. Castiel gets the covers out from under him, pulls them over Dean's legs. Shivers start racing over Dean's skin and the lines around his eyes are tight like something is hurting him. Castiel presses a hand against his cheek again and regards him with worry. He needs to warm Dean up before they can fight the fever. He tugs the covers further up and under Dean's arms, and then remembers the hot water bottle Dean had made for him on that first day. It takes him a while to find it, never having bothered to learn where it ended up after he'd given it back to Dean. He finally finds it next to a neatly stacked pile of blue and green striped dishtowels in the kitchen.

When he comes back, Dean has moved onto his side and is curled around his pillow. His breathing sounds strained and his hands are fisted into the sheets.

Castiel sits down so that his knees are touching Dean's back and gently uncurls Dean's fingers from the sheets so that he can fit the warm water bottle against his front. As soon as he lets go of them, Dean's hands curl into the covers again.

The sight is as endearing as it is worrying. Dean is extremely vulnerable right now, and Castiel is aware Dean wouldn't want him, or anyone else for that matter, to see him like this. Not out of pride, but because the life Dean leads has taught him that his every vulnerability will be ruthlessly exploited by other people.

Castiel has also learned that a person's own room is a very personal and private space. He has hardly ever been in Dean's room, and now he is sitting on his bed. But Dean needs help and care right now. Surely that must excuse Castiel's breach of his privacy.

Dean is still shivering, but he looks less pale now. The strands of his hair are spiked up with sweat and he's starting to move restlessly.

Hesitantly, Castiel reaches out a hand to try what he has often observed parents do to soothe their sickly children. He smoothes Dean's hair back from his forehead and starts running his fingers through it. When it makes Dean sigh and calm down, he keeps at it for a while. Dean leans his head back when he finally withdraws his touch as if chasing after it, but he doesn't wake up.

Castiel will have to wake him soon though. Dean was out there for hours, and combined with the fever he must be dehydrated. Castiel leaves Dean's door slightly ajar when he leaves for the kitchen. The hallways seem far too still and quiet when he walks through them. He finds a thermos in the kitchen, fills it with cool water and selects a glass to take with him. The sound of the tap water running and of the cupboard opening and closing appear far louder than usual to him. Like he's at the bottom of a dried out well, or an echoing cave.

Compared to an angel, his senses are far duller now. But every sensation is also more immediate, so much so that it still catches him off guard. The sounds suddenly being louder though, that can only be his imagination. Castiel has been in the kitchen before when no one else was there. It's not possible for it to feel emptier than before because Sam is not in the bunker anymore and Dean is sick and unconscious in his bed.

But the heavy feeling in Castiel's chest claims otherwise. It must be sadness. Pain, even when it's not physical, can make humans irrational.

Castiel closes the door to Dean's room firmly behind himself when he gets back. Dean is still asleep, though it doesn't look any more restful than before Castiel left. He sits down on the edge of the bed beside Dean and gently shakes his shoulder. “Dean? You need to wake up for a moment. Dean!”

It takes several more seconds until finally Dean opens his eyes and blinks in confusion, and then he flinches hard and turns around to look up at Castiel.

“Cas?” Dean's voice is croaky and his eyes are still blood-shot. He shifts up on the bed to lean on one elbow, his gaze flickering from Castiel to his surroundings and back, quite obviously disoriented.

“You need to drink something while you're awake.” Castiel turns halfway around and fills the glass with water from the thermos, then makes to hold the glass to Dean's mouth.

Dean leans back and nudges Castiel's hand away from himself, which makes Castiel frown at him. But Dean interrupts his reprimand by asking, “Cas, how did—why am I here?” Dean's voice is strained and he sounds out of breath just from speaking. His words are slurring together and his question makes little sense to Castiel.

“You're sick, Dean. You're fevered.” He holds the water out to him again. “You need to drink this now.”

Dean still looks confused, but he doesn't fight Castiel about the water anymore. He even gets a hand around the glass, his grip so weak that Castiel mostly holds the glass for him. Castiel gets two glasses of water in him until Dean turns away again and curls around the hot water bottle, eyes closed and his mouth slightly open. Both his hands instantly fist into the covers again.

When Dean begins to sweat in earnest, Castiel wrestles the hot water bottle out from under Dean's arms. He gets a bowl with lukewarm water and a small towel, wipes it over Dean's face and his neck to stimulate the sweat that will help cool his body down.

The next time he wakes Dean to make him drink more water, Dean just stares at him for several seconds and then clumsily sits up. He pulls the topmost cover off the bed and around his shoulders, then staggers to his feet. He ignores Castiel's questions of where he is going and shuffles down the hall in the direction of the bathrooms. It's only now that Castiel realizes Dean has nothing but socks on his feet.

When he comes back a few minutes later, Dean smells of soap and mouthwash. The blanket is still around his shoulders, its tail ends trailing on the floor.

Dean sits down on the bed again, his legs under him and his shoulders hunched. He holds out a hand, and it takes Castiel a moment to understand he's silently asking for water.

Dean's hands seem steadier, but Castiel still holds onto the glass while Dean drains it.

Castiel is about to reach for the thermos again when he hesitates. “More?”

Dean shakes his head.

Castiel puts the empty glass back on Dean's nightstand and then turns towards him. “How are you feeling?”

Dean looks up from where he'd been staring into nothingness. His fingers are fussing with the edge of his blanket. Dean is a large man, but he looks strangely small under it.

Dean stares at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he lies down again with his back to Castiel, curled into himself as if trying to hide in plain sight.

>

Since Dean hasn't asked him to leave, Castiel stays. He is not sure whether Dean sleeps, but with his back to Castiel it's difficult to tell.

He knows he shouldn't, but with nothing else to do Castiel finds himself looking around Dean's room and taking note of everything in it. It's different from Sam's room, that Castiel knows has a TV and a DVD player but is bare of any decorations. It's certainly different from Castiel's room, that he only uses to sleep in. Dean has mounted his guns and his blades on one wall, and there's a wooden cross and stakes and a bag that might hold goofer dust on the shelf behind his bed. But his room has an air of comfort that the other rooms lack. The mattress is surprisingly comfortable, and the covers are warm and soft. There's a green couch on one side of his room, and the lighting is both warm and comfortably subdued. Two tables hold an old stereo system and neatly stacked vinyl, and there's an old typewriter on the desk beside it.

The desk also has a lamp on it, and under it Castiel spots a photograph. He throws a look at Dean's back, but Dean's breaths are deep and even.

He carefully gets up from the bed so as not to wake Dean, and walks over to the desk.

The colors of the photo have faded over time, but he still immediately knows who it must be. Dean, who can't have been older than four when the photo was taken, looks very content with his mother's arms around him. It makes Castiel feel both warmed and saddened. This must be what Dean means when he speaks of family. Someone who makes you feel both happy and safe.

Castiel carefully puts the photo back and sits down beside Dean on the bed again. He could get a book, but he doesn't feel like reading. There's no real reason for him to stay while Dean is asleep, and Dean has grumbled about Castiel watching him sleep on several occasions. Despite knowing all of this, Castiel stays where he is. He toes off his shoes and rests his back against the headboard, tilts his head back to look at the ceiling and lets his mind wander.

Despite the circumstances, Castiel feels soothed by Dean's warmth at his side, by the safety and silence of Dean's room that is engulfing the two of them. He can't remember when he had last taken the time to sit still and just feel instead of think. As an angel, he had enjoyed watching humans, even if he had rarely understood their ways. Through the time he had spent down here with them, he had thought he was beginning to understand. But maybe he had been wrong. Maybe he hadn't understood at all.

Dean rolls over at some point, his features slack with sleep. He's sweating less, and when Castiel hovers a hand above his cheek and forehead, he seems to be radiating less heat than before. Castiel will have to wake him at some point to change out of his sweat-soaked clothes, but for now he lets him be. The skin underneath Dean's eyes looks thin and bruised. Dean's fever has been nowhere near dangerously high, but the way it has severely weakened him makes Castiel suspect the underlying cause for Dean's state is simple and utter exhaustion.

Castiel regards him sadly. He knows he will eventually have to leave, to find the part of himself that was ripped from him, and to undo the mistakes he has made. That is what he needs to focus on, the bigger picture. But Dean is breathing softly through his slightly open mouth, his hands relaxed now where before they had clung tight to the blanket, and in this moment he looks painfully defenseless. Castiel has to fight down the absurd urge to shove Dean's dresser in front of his door, so no one can come in and demand something of Dean or hurt him further.

His struggle is interrupted by the muffled sound of the front door slamming shut. Castiel tenses, instantly on alert though it is mixed with hope that maybe this means Sam has come back. He waits several tense minutes but no sound of footsteps come from the hallway. As silent as he is able, he puts his shoes back on and slips out of Dean's room, makes his way through the hallway and enters the library where Sam would need to walk through to get to his room. But no one is there.

“Sam?”

No one answers. He looks around in confusion for a moment until he realizes the door slamming shut doesn't necessarily mean someone came back.

Castiel hurries back the way he came, only to find Kevin's door open and the room dark and empty.

Castiel thinks about going after him, but too much time has already gone by since Kevin left. The only chance of finding him is by car, but Castiel has never driven before and he wouldn't even know how to get out of the garage.

He goes back to Dean's room, and this time, he leaves the door open behind himself. He wastes another moment sitting at Dean's bedside, watching him sleep and feeling loathe to wake him. But it's not safe for Kevin out there, and he knows Dean will worry. He reaches out and shakes Dean's shoulder.

“You need to wake up, Dean. _Dean_.”

Dean groans and his shoulder tenses under Castiel's touch. He opens his eyes and stares dazedly up at Castiel.

Castiel removes his hand and sets his jaw. “Kevin is gone.”

Dean stares at him in incomprehension for a moment longer, but then understanding settles in. He frowns, pushes himself into a sitting position on unsteady arms and presses his fingers into his closed eyes. “What d'you mean, gone?”

Castiel sighs. “His room is empty of his possessions and I heard the front door shut about fifteen minutes ago. I'm afraid it's too late to follow him on foot. Do you think you can drive?”

Dean exhales and nods, removes his hands from his face and blinks glassy eyes against the light. He looks determined.

Castiel gets up from the bed to make room for Dean when he remembers something. “You should change your clothes before we go. Sweat-soaked clothing could exacerbate your fever again.”

Dean blinks up at him from where he was about to push himself off the bed. “Um. Yeah, okay.” He makes no move to do so however, and it's not until Castiel notices how the tips of Dean's ears have turned pink that it clicks with him.

“Right, I—I'll wait outside, of course.”

Embarrassed, he hurries out of Dean's room and closes the door behind himself.

Dean has boots on when he comes out a few minutes later. He's wearing a different pair of jeans, a blue jacket over a red-and-white striped plaid shirt and a black t-shirt. It should make him look more like Castiel is used to seeing him, but his shoulders are rounded, his face is blotchy and he's unsteady on his feet. Dean covers it up admirably though, forces the slouch of his spine straight and starts towards the garage. Castiel walks beside him and tries not to let it show that he's careful to let Dean set the pace.

Dean strokes a hand over the Impala's roof and then gets behind the wheel, turns the engine over as soon as Castiel has closed the door on the passenger side.

They're driving towards the main road when Castiel asks, “Where do you think he went?”

“There's no bus stop,” Dean replies. He sounds weary and resigned. “He could hijack a car, but that's tricky in a town this small. He's probably looking for someone driving in the direction of the next Greyhound station, like Hays, Kearney, or Grand Island. Or—well, anywhere else but here.”

They have reached the town now, and Dean slows the car down. Castiel straightens in his seat. They are driving down Kansas Avenue now. The few, mostly elderly people Castiel spots eye Dean's black car distrustfully. There's no sign of Kevin. Dean turns into Main Street, “There's a Post Office and a grocery store. Probably the only places that see some action.”

There are more cars here, but not a whole lot more people. To their right, a red brick building comes into view with a sign proclaiming it Ladow's Market. A truck that says Pepsi on the side is parked close to it. Several pick-up trucks and smaller cars are parked in front of the store, and that's where Castiel catches sight of someone with short black hair and a backpack.

“Dean!”

Dean must see him as well then, because he swears under his breath, parks the car haphazardly on the side of the road and throws his door open.

“Kevin!”

Castiel hurries after Dean. Kevin is talking with a man wearing a trucker cap, gesturing wildly while the man looks doubtful. At Dean's shout, Kevin looks over to them and then his face closes off. He abruptly shoulders past the man and starts down the road, his shoulders up at his ears.

Dean reaches him first. He grabs Kevin by the shoulder and tries to get in front of him, “Hey, buddy, what's wrong, where are you going?”

Kevin shrugs Dean's hand off and tries to get past him but Dean blocks his way again, holding up both of his hands and ducking his head to try and catch Kevin's eyes. He's out of breath and his cheeks are blotchy again. “Kevin, c'mon, talk to me.”

Kevin finally stops with an irritated sound and throws the backpack he had hanging off one shoulder to the ground. Castiel has stopped several feet behind him, unsure how to proceed. Then Kevin suddenly looks up at Dean, his voice sharp when he hisses, “You know what, Dean? Screw you. I'm going to find my mother, because none of you jackasses are doing it!”

Dean grimaces, a guilty look flashing through his eyes. He lets his hands sink. His voice sounds soft and placating when he says, “Kevin, we have no idea where she is. You know that.”

“No!” Kevin is shouting now, his hands balled into fists. “No, I know where she is! I had a vision, a prophetic dream, whatever, but I know where she is! It's that warehouse where Crowley had me. They slit her throat and threw her in some cellar to rot. But I'm gonna get her outta there, and—”

Dean swallows, shakes his head. “Kevin—”

“No!” Kevin's voice breaks then, the tears audible in it. Castiel flinches and takes an automatic step forward when Kevin steps closer to Dean and starts pounding his fists against Dean's chest. “Why is my mother dead, Dean?! Why is she dead?!”

Dean turns his face to the side. The color has drained from his cheeks. Instead of pushing Kevin away he bears the onslaught without a word, his arms coming up around Kevin. Kevin fights him at first, his hands fisted in Dean's shirt, but then he collapses against him, breath hitching with his sobs.

Dean strokes a hand down Kevin's back, meets Castiel's eyes and they share a helpless look. It takes several more minutes, but finally Kevin's sobs die down and all the strength seems to go out of him. Dean ruffles his hair and bends down to get one of Kevin's arms around his shoulder, taking his weight. “C'mon, kid. Let's get you home.”

Castiel picks up Kevin's backpack and they trudge back to the Impala. The Pepsi truck is gone. Kevin curls up in the backseat and Dean turns the car around before slowly driving back the way they came.

>

The entire drive back, Castiel feels like he should say something, but he doesn't know what. Now that he doesn't have the distraction of looking for Kevin, he realizes he is hungry. Nourishment seems so insignificant compared to all the problems they are facing, the battles that have yet to be fought. But it's all he can think about. Another day it might have angered and frustrated him how easily he succumbs to his most basic urges as a human, but right now he just wants to be inside again and sit in the kitchen and eat something warm and wholesome.

Instead of driving back to the garage, Dean parks the car in front of the bunker's entrance. Kevin stumbles out of the car and walks inside without looking at either of them, his head hung low. When Castiel follows after, hesitant, to bring Kevin his backpack, he finds him face-down on his bed, turned away from the door. Unsure of what else to do, Castiel enters and puts the backpack down beside Kevin's bed. He leaves the door ajar when he leaves.

Dean isn't in his room or the library, and Castiel finally finds him in the kitchen. Dean is leaning with his back against the counter, his eyes closed, a glass of water pressed against his forehead. He blinks at Castiel when he notices him, puts the glass down and tries to smile, but it comes out wobbly and soon falls away. He looks so tired. Castiel steps closer, instinctively trying to shield Dean, even though it's a move born out of his own helplessness and persistent refusal to face it.

Dean marginally relaxes for a moment, but then he grimaces and rubs at his forehead. “Cas, I know you didn't plan on staying here any longer. But, if I go check this out can you keep an eye on Kevin? Just until I know what's what?”

Castiel is thrown off guard for a moment, but then protective anger flows through him and he sets his jaw. “You are _not_ going alone.”

Instead of getting defensive, Dean smiles, softly. His eyes are warm, and it doesn't make any sense.

“Cas—”

Castiel stands his ground. “No, Dean. You aren't well, and this could be dangerous.”

Dean shakes his head. “Cas, think for a moment. Kevin's never had visions before.” He licks his lips, his eyes briefly flickering over to the kitchen entrance and then back to Castiel. His voice is lower when he continues, “There's a big chance this is a bust. But Kevin's got a point, we owe it to the kid to try. And hey, maybe I find out something useful while I'm at it, who knows.”

Castiel says nothing in reply, feeling torn. He has let Dean go or left him behind in greater danger before. And it's not that his faith in Dean has lessened. He can't pinpoint what has changed. He just—doesn't like this.

“I don't like it,” he grits out, and one corner of Dean's mouth tugs up in amusement.

“It's gonna be okay, Cas. Besides, you got your own mission, right?”

Right. Castiel nods mutely and swallows.

With a sigh, Dean slumps further against the counter. His gaze falls away and he starts fiddling with a dishtowel, absently moving it back and forth over the same very clean spot on the counter.

“I'm sorry I lied.”

The sudden confession makes Castiel look up again, but Dean won't meet his eyes. He doesn't say anything else, and it gives Castiel the opportunity to examine how he feels. He and Dean have lied to each other in the past, and they've seldom been granted the chance to build up trust again before the next problem demanded their attention. But he feels they have gotten closer again, and Castiel is loathe to lose the emotional intimacy he has with Dean that he's never had with anyone else.

“You felt you needed to protect me from the truth. I understand why you did it, just please don't do it again, Dean.”

Dean grimaces at that. He stops fussing with the dishtowel and smiles fleetingly at Castiel, his eyes glassy and sad. “I'm not great at keeping promises, Cas.” He can't meet Castiel's gaze for long, but it's long enough for Castiel to catch the fear and intense regret that Dean doesn't manage to hide quickly enough.

It brings back the confusion and alarm Castiel had felt when he found Dean outside, and he frowns in concern, takes another step forward. Dean doesn't react and keeps staring at the floor. “Dean, what's wrong?”

For a long moment, Dean doesn't answer at all. When he finally does, his voice sounds forlorn, like he's forgotten Castiel's presence and is only talking to himself.

“You ever think we should just—stop? Like we think we help more people than we hurt, but what if we're not?”

Castiel tries to swallow, but his throat is suddenly dry.

“Dean, where is this coming from?”

Another long moment of Dean not reacting at all, but then he looks up and smiles a painful looking smile that falls away quickly. He straightens, looking imploringly at Castiel. “Cas, promise me you'll look out for yourself, okay?”

Castiel frowns at him. The rapid change of topic confuses him a bit, but this seems important to Dean.

“Of course, Dean.”

Dean nods, and then his shoulders straighten. “It's about four and a half hours from here. I'll call you when I'm there,” he says, and then walks past Castiel and out of the kitchen.

Castiel watches him go, feeling worried. He decides to make himself some tea. It should relax him. He goes through the motions mechanically, not really watching what he's doing and thus ending up with green tea instead of chamomile. Castiel did not even know they had green tea. It might be Sam's.

By the time he wanders into the library, Dean is already half-way up the stairs, a bag over his shoulder. Dean does a little wave when he sees him, but he's already looking away again by the time Castiel has hastily set down his tea on one of the tables to wave back.

The door shuts behind Dean, and then the surrounding silence is loud in Castiel's ears.

He stands there for a moment, feeling lost. A part of him wants to go after Dean, make him turn back around. But then what? There is no rationale behind this urge, so he shoves it aside and sits down at the table. When he takes a sip of his tea, he grimaces. It's far too bitter for his tastes.

He puts the cup back down and wraps his hands around it instead. He's read how the warmth of a hot beverage can act calming by virtue of being similar to having another person's body heat close.

It doesn't appear to be working for him right now. He feels frustrated and restless.

Castiel should check the news. Should make sure he's really packed everything he is going to need when he leaves. But his stomach reminds him again that he's hungry, and he abandons the cup of undrinkable tea and goes into the kitchen.

He heats up part of their leftovers and sits at the kitchen table to eat. He realizes it's very lonely to eat all by oneself. But until he finds his Grace he is going to have to resign himself to it.

When he is finished, he decides to clean the kitchen up a bit. It's not that it looks dirty, though maybe he is just unable to spot the dirt that Dean constantly appears to fight.

Castiel tries his best, but it doesn't look like when Dean does it when he's finished, and that irritates him. Making a kitchen look orderly and clean and inviting can't possibly be such an arduous endeavor. He is still glaring at the chrome edges of the stove that look smudged instead of shiny when someone clears their throat behind him.

When he turns around, Kevin is standing in the doorway to the kitchen. He's changed into a different t-shirt and his hair is ruffled. Kevin shifts where he stands, eyes briefly flickering to Castiel and away again, a strange blend of defensiveness and uncertainty in his demeanor.

“Hey,” Kevin offers, his voice rough.

“Hello,” Castiel says, then hesitates, unsure how to proceed. He and Kevin haven't had much opportunity to converse, despite the weeks they have technically spent together here. “Do you want some tea?” He isn't sure why he asks that, except that it seems appropriate to the situation.

Kevin must think differently, because he frowns at Castiel in confusion and then shakes his head, takes a few steps further into the kitchen. “Um, no thanks. Where's Dean?”

Castiel straightens his shoulders. “He left to look for your mother.”

As Castiel expected, Kevin looks angry, his jaw all bunched up, but he doesn't appear altogether surprised. “That fucking asshole.”

Kevin turns around sharply and makes to storm off when Castiel steps forward, alarmed, “Kevin, wait! Where are you going?”

Kevin gapes at him. “After him, what the fuck else?! You can't make me stay here.”

Castiel shakes his head. “Maybe not,” he says placatingly. “But imagine how your mother would feel if you were hurt or killed trying to find her. Dean probably has a better chance of finding her and bringing her back, especially if she is still alive, if he's alone.”

Kevin swallows and then asks, his tone accusing and his eyes not meeting Castiel's, “So you're perfectly okay with _Dean_ not coming back?”

Castiel frowns at him. His heart rate is picking up for no apparent reason, and he tries to ignore it. “Of course Dean is coming back.”

Kevin looks at him challengingly. His eyes are shining wetly while his words are angry. “Oh yeah? How do you know? How do you know Dean won't end up dead in a ditch somewhere as well?!”

Castiel _doesn't_ know. He won't know.

He does not say that, of course. Doesn't even want to think it. Dean is strong, and intelligent, and capable. Kevin is frantic and scared right now, but he knows Dean, and just needs to be reminded of these facts.

All that makes it through Castiel's gritted teeth, however, is a repeat of his own words. “Dean is coming back.”

Kevin snorts derisively and throws his hands up in frustration, “You must be the single most _naive—_ ”

Castiel doesn't find out what Kevin thinks he is, because Kevin is interrupted by the loud and rhythmic vibrating sound of a phone coming from the counter.

Castiel had been so focused on the stove and his disappointment with his attempts at cleaning it that he hadn't payed any attention to the counter. He walks over, pushes the dishtowel aside Dean had fussed with earlier, and picks the phone up, only to pause in confusion when he realizes whose phone it is.

“It's Dean's,” he tells Kevin, “He must have forgotten it when—” The words get stuck in his throat at seeing the caller ID.

“It's Crowley.”

“ _What_?!”

Kevin hurries over to stand beside him. Castiel swallows, then tightens his jaw. “Don't say a word,” he tells Kevin. Then he accepts the call and puts the phone on speaker.

“Crowley.”

“ _Huh. That was fast. Thought I'd have to serenade the B-team much longer_.”

“Dean is occupied. Why are you calling,” Castiel grits out, flatly.

There's the crackling sound of a long-suffering sigh through the line. _“I already knew Dean wasn't there. But I knew his phone was. Same as I know that you have that phone on speaker, but the giant baby isn't there, so unless you have an imaginary friend, there's only one other person it could be. Hi, Kev.”_

“You _fucking—_ ”

Castiel has to put one arm in front of Kevin's chest and hold the phone out of his reach.

“Tell us why you're calling, Crowley, or I'm hanging up.”

Another sigh. The sound grates on Castiel's nerves.

“ _Fine. Squirrel called from a certain warehouse about half an hour ago, asking about mommy dearest. And I told him the same thing I'm telling you lot, I let her go weeks ago. Seeing as she didn't have her phone with the Winchesters' number anymore, I can understand she wasn't able to call_ them _. But—_ ”

He trails off, and Castiel looks at Kevin, disbelief, hope, and confusion at war in his mind.

Kevin has lost all color and is staring at the phone with wide eyes. He swallows, and then croaks out, sounding almost sheepish, “I, um. I was angry and I smashed my phone against the wall a couple of weeks ago.”

“ _Well that little mystery is solved then. Moving on—_ ”

Kevin looks torn between staying and running off to try and call his mother from one of the spare phones, so Castiel interrupts Crowley harshly. “And why exactly would you let her go? She's a valuable hostage.”

Kevin stares at him with a mixture of anger and disbelief then, but Castiel grits his teeth and waits.

Crowley sounds oddly defensive when he hisses, _“What, you think you can pump a demon full of purified human blood and nothing happens? Can't you lot just be happy she's all fine and dandy and leave me in peace?”_

Castiel doesn't quite know what to make of that reply. They have nothing to threaten Crowley with, so they're unlikely to get any more information out of him.

“And this is why you called?” Castiel doesn't bother to hide the suspicion in his tone.

Crowley snorts. _“There's just no foreplay with you, is there? Fine. When we had our little chat, Dean left me a message for you, as well as a little something that's currently sitting in a storage unit at 100 E 7_ _th_ _Street, Atlantic, Iowa. So I suggest you get your uptight asses up there.”_

Before Castiel can get another word out, Crowley hangs up.

He curses and hits re-dial, but it's to no avail. Castiel lets the phone clutter onto the counter and struggles to focus, but all his thoughts are in disarray, and the alarm that courses through him makes rational thinking difficult. From the hallway, he can make out the muffled sounds of Kevin rapidly talking to someone. A moment later, Kevin comes running back into the kitchen, his eyes shining with unshed tears and excitement. “She's okay! My mom's okay, she's home, I gotta go!”

He's about to run off again when Castiel yells after him, “Kevin, wait! This could still be a trap. We should call Sam, have him come with us.”

Kevin throws his arms up in annoyance, then snorts. “Call _Sam_? Good luck with that. Last time it took a _year_ until I heard from him.”

Kevin gets a dark, bitter look on his face, then stomps off down the hallway to his room.

Castiel stares after him in confusion for a moment. But when he calls Sam, he discovers to his chagrin that Kevin may have been right. Sam doesn't pick up.

Castiel remembers then that he's using Dean's phone, and though the thought hurts, it might explain why Sam is ignoring the calls. Castiel briefly considers calling from a different phone, then decides to send a text message instead.

_Sam, this is Castiel. It's very urgent, please call me back._

Castiel stares at the floor, then the counter, then the walls while he waits. Three minutes go by, then five. After ten minutes, Dean's phone finally vibrates in his hand, almost causing him to drop it.

Sam's caller ID is flashing on the screen, and Castiel slides his thumb over it to accept the call.

“Sam?”

“ _Hey, Cas.”_ Sam's tone isn't unfriendly, but it's tense.

“Sam, Dean is gone. He left to look for Kevin's mother but he didn't take his phone with him.” Castiel is pacing and trying to keep his voice calm, but he doesn't altogether succeed. He is braced for alarm, for blame maybe, and is then left reeling when it doesn't come.

Instead, there's a crackling sigh, and then Sam is saying, _“Cas, I know you worry about my brother. But Dean is like that, sometimes he just—”_

Castiel interrupts him impatiently. “Sam, you don't understand. Crowley called, he says he has a message from Dean. And he claims he isn't holding Kevin's mother hostage anymore. It appears she couldn't reach Kevin because he destroyed his phone.”

Sam sounds disbelieving but finally slightly alarmed now. _“Crowley has a message from Dean? Does that means he_ has _Dean? And what message?”_

“I don't think so, and I don't know. He wants us to meet him somewhere in Atlantic, Iowa. I'm concerned it might be a trap.”

Sam still appears to hesitate, and Castiel has to fight to keep his rising impatience in check.

“Sam?”

“ _Yes, I've heard you. Listen, Cas, I'm about three hours away from you. I can pick you both up, and we can go see what Crowley wants.”_

Castiel exhales in relief, and finally stops pacing.

“Thank you, Sam.”

There's a brief pause, then Sam says, _“Sure, Cas,”_ and hangs up.

Castiel stands in the kitchen for a long moment, absently stroking his thumb back and forth over the phone's black screen while staring into nothing. Three hours until Sam is here, and they'll leave. Castiel's bags are packed still.

Castiel takes a breath. He should take some holy water with him. Maybe pack some more clothes. Make sure his angel blade is close at hand.

Castiel stands in the kitchen, staring at the empty space.

>

It's getting dark by the time they're driving away from the bunker in Sam's stolen car. It's gray and box-shaped and has a cap over the roof. Castiel is sitting in the shotgun seat, Kevin slouching in the back, wearing earbuds and a frown that speaks of his impatience. The silence inside the car isn't exactly uncomfortable, but still tense. They haven't spoken about what happens after they've met with Crowley and have brought Kevin home. Maybe because it seems obvious—Kevin will go home, Sam will leave again, Castiel will go and search for his Grace. But what about Dean? What if he needs help? Castiel could probably still leave to help the angels, because surely Sam wouldn't abandon his brother. It's not even like Castiel would have a choice–the misery of his fallen brethren should outweigh whatever trouble Dean is in, right?

Castiel doesn't like how guilty the answer makes him feel. He tries not to think about it, focusing his mind on the upcoming meeting with Crowley. If Sam is going through the trials again, Crowley obviously does not know about it. Otherwise he never would have let Kevin's mother go, if he truly has, that is.

He voices that conclusion to Sam, finally breaking the silence that had built up between them. Sam doesn't say anything for a long moment, then finally takes a breath and clears his throat.

“Look, Cas. I just needed some time alone. I was really angry, I needed to get away, and Dean needed to understand why, because he obviously didn't.”

Castiel frowns, trying to decipher this.

“So you—changed your mind about the trials.”

Sam is silent again for a minute.

“Dean should have let me finish the trials.” He sounds angry again, bitter. “He's only willing to do the sacrifice if _he_ doesn't get hurt. That's not how—”

Castiel feels himself stiffen at the words, the sudden surge of protectiveness so strong he has to curl his hands over his knees to keep it contained.

“Sam, you know that's not true,” he interrupts him, mildly but firmly. “Dean is the least selfish person I know.”

Sam throws him a look then, something between disappointment and aggravation.

“Cas, I know you care about Dean. Okay? But that doesn't mean you always have to take his side.”

Castiel looks over at Sam and narrows his eyes at him, feeling increasingly frustrated.

“This isn't about taking sides.”

“Then what is it about, Cas?” Sam's tone is sharper now, clearly becoming annoyed. Castiel catches Kevin scowling at them from the backseat, but they both ignore him.

Castiel takes a breath, concentrates on keeping his voice even. He doesn't wish to fight with Sam.

“All I'm saying is, you can criticize Dean for his decisions, but you can't blame him for your own.”

Sam throws him a narrow-eyed look.

“What is that supposed to mean? Are you saying this is my fault?”

Castiel shakes his head, growing increasingly tired of all the arguing. “I'm saying that maybe you were doing the right thing—trying to close the gates of hell—but you did it for the wrong reasons. You are a very wise and determined man, Sam. I don't think Dean would have been able to persuade you if he didn't have reason to believe something was wrong.”

Sam doesn't say anything, but Castiel cannot be sure if its due to Sam agreeing or being tired of arguing as well.

“Dean was quite concerned about you and Kevin,” Castiel adds, softly. “And he wasn't well when he left.”

Sam sighs, looking weary.

“Cas, I know you mean well. But please don't try and use my worry for my brother against me.”

Castiel frowns at that. “I was not,” he clarifies. “I just thought you should know. I think something is wrong with Dean, something we didn't notice.”

Sam switches lanes, and a faster car drives past them. “Cas, we're all a little messed up. Some of us more than a little. And what about you, how are you holding up?”

“I'm fine,” Castiel replies, absently smoothing out the wrinkles in his dress pants. “What about you?”

“I'm okay, Cas.” Then he seems to hesitate. “Or, I'm getting there. I guess we all are.”

He throws Castiel a small smile. Castiel returns it as best as he is able. He hopes Sam's words are true.

>

Kevin stays in the car, a water gun with holy water in his lap, while Cas and Sam walk down the street towards the self storage units. Castiel pulls out Dean's cell phone when they're there and texts Crowley.

_We're there._

A second later, Crowley steps into the flickering yellow light of the nearest street lamp. His dark suit is as impeccable as ever, but something has changed about the way he holds himself, though Castiel finds himself unable to pin down exactly what it is.

Sam stiffens beside Castiel, the demon killing knife at the ready.

Crowley smirks at the both of them. It looks more tired than snarky. “Why so aggressive? I'm just here to chat.”

Castiel narrows his eyes at him. “Where is Dean?”

Crowley rolls his eyes at him, his expression a blend of offense and disgust.

“Down, boy. Didn't touch a hair on his head, despite how _adorably_ ruffled it looked.”

Heat boils in Castiel's guts. Sam holds a hand up, a look of perplexed distaste on his face.

“Cut the crap, Crowley. Why do you have a message from Dean?”

Crowley huffs. “Fine.” He reaches into his coat, pulls out a small object that he then throws at Sam to catch, who instinctively flinches away. It clatters onto the concrete and then lies there, half inside the circle of streetlight and half concealed by darkness.

“What—?”

Castiel stares at the object, and his breath catches in his throat.

Dean's car keys.

Sam raises the knife, his voice loud and sharp when he demands, “How did you get these?! I swear, if you—”

Crowley looks almost bored.

“Please. You think if I squashed squirrel—god knows I _should—_ I'd be meeting with _you two?_ Delivering the keys to you was my part of the deal. I've delivered the keys. Goodnight, gentlemen.”

He makes to snap his fingers but Castiel tightens his hold on his angel blade and takes a step forward. “Where. Is. Dean.”

Crowley squints at him. “Are you dense? It's not my business to know where your little firecracker is—how do the kids say it these days?—25/8.”

Castiel is about to take another step closer and repeat himself when Sam asks, “Why would Dean make a deal with you? You have nothing to offer us.”

Crowley appears offended at that, straightening and leveling Sam with a look.

“Just because we had one little moment in that church, moose, do not think you know me. If you honestly believe sticking some blood in me has made me lose my edge, then you're even more arrogant than I thought.”

Sam falters for a moment, apparently unsure what to make of that statement. Crowley rolls his eyes then and sighs. “I'm only telling you in the hope that you will stop annoying me. You probably won't, hope is one fickle bitch after all. So I will do you the favor of putting it in the simplest words possible, so it will get through your thick skulls. Squirrel came here, found no sign of tiger mommy, called me. I explained to him what I then explained to you. And then he made me an offer that, what is that old saying? I couldn't refuse.”

He pauses dramatically and Castiel narrows his eyes at him, impatient. “Which was...?”

Crowley threw him an offended look but continued. “I don't act on my formidable revenge plans on you lot, make sure this boat of a car makes it to you safe and sound—he gets me Abaddon.”

“What?!” Sam tenses beside Castiel as if ready to strike, while Castiel stands frozen, unwilling to believe what he heard to be true.

“Get you Abaddon _how_? Knights of Hell can't be killed!”

Crowley smirks. “Not by regular means, no.”

“Then how?” Sam demands, sharply.

Crowley looks at him pityingly. “You been dropped on your head a great deal? As if I would spill my trade secrets to you of all people.”

“And what is Dean's part in this?” Castiel interrupts them.

Crowley looks at him. “He's bait.”

Castiel frowns, not sure he understands. “Bait for Abaddon?”

Sam, if possible, has tensed further. “What does she want with Dean?”

A flicker of an expression ghosts over Crowley's face, then it's back to vague annoyance again. “You mean besides the very sizable ax she has to grind with you lot?” Crowley shrugs. “His body.” He smiles very faintly. “She has a _thing_ for strong and yet breakable, _pretty_ things.” He licks his lips and adds, sounding contemplative, “If nothing else, at least the hag has good taste when it comes to—”

“ _Don't—_ ”

Castiel has straightened and raised his blade almost without noticing what his body was doing, anger burning hot and sharp at the back of his tongue. “Don't you _dare_ talk about Dean like that.”

A satisfied smile tugs at the corners of Crowley's mouth, his eyes glinting.

“Why? Because you lack the _guts_ to talk about him like he's a fine piece of ass you wouldn't mind warming your bed at night? Or because you _can't_ , because you were about to leave him at the wayside like a sick dog?”

Castiel's anger boils over, his teeth gritted so tightly they hurt, but the pain barely registers.

“ _You—_ ”

Crowley just smirks at him, making no move to defend himself. He doesn't have to. Sam has stepped halfway in front of Cas, is holding him back, and it almost serves to make Castiel more angry. Castiel doesn't want anyone talking about Dean like that. Like Dean is nothing beyond his body, his _vessel_. Like his warmth, and his care, and his loyalty, could be brushed aside and crushed that easily.

Castiel won't allow it. Won't—

“Cas, hey! Calm down!”

It's Sam's voice, distant, and then Sam's face, right in front of him. His head ducked down to try and catch Castiel's eyes. Castiel glares at him, but when he tries to step past Sam, Sam grabs him by the arm.

“Cas, calm down, would you? This isn't helping anyone.”

Castiel wrenches his arm out of Sam's grip but takes a step back. Crowley, when he's in Castiel's line of sight again, is smirking in satisfaction.

“Well, this was a lovely chat. I don't enjoy being poked with a stick unless it's a Friday night though. So, if you would excuse me now, I have a pack of Hellhounds to feed.”

Before either of them can say anything else, Crowley is gone.

Sam curses under his breath and rakes a hand through his hair. “Great.” He turns around to Castiel and levels him with a look. “Cas, what the hell was that?”

Castiel glares at him.

“It was profane and offensive what he implied.”

Sam sighs.

“Everything Crowley says is profane and offensive. That's nothing new!”

Castiel doesn't say anything in return. He walks over and picks up Dean's car keys, turns them over in his hand. They're heavier than Castiel thought they'd be. Smooth and cool, but quickly warming in his hand, absorbing his body heat.

Sam sighs behind him and then comes over to stand at Castiel's side. He holds his hand out, palm up.

“Let's drive Kevin home. Then we'll think about what's next.”

Castiel hears him, but he doesn't look up, doesn't reply right away. He's still looking down at the keys, turning them over in his hand once more.

Their glint is faint and silver in the dark.

Castiel takes a breath and raises his head, holds Sam's eyes with his own.

“No. I'm sorry, Sam. But I need to take the car.”

Sam stares at him for a moment, then frowns, shifting his weight.

“Cas, no offense, but I don't think—If you wanna go look for your Grace, I get that. But you can take my car. I'm not sure Dean would want—”

Castiel shakes his head.

“I am going to look for my Grace. But I also need to find Dean.”

Sam, if anything, looks more confused.

“Okay, so. Where does the car come into that?”

Castiel looks past him at the Impala, most of her hidden in the shadows of her tiny prison. When Dean came to get him that night after he Fell, Castiel had felt so safe inside her with Dean by his side. Before they drove to bring Kevin back, Dean had smoothed his hand over her roof.

At length, Castiel says, “I think she will help me.”

Sam appears openly doubtful when Castiel finally looks at him again. He drags a hand through his hair and shakes his head.

“Cas, you don't have a license. Can you even drive?”

Castiel bristles a bit at that, though Sam does have a point. Castiel has detailed theoretical knowledge of a lot of things, but he has found that, outside of combat, he doesn't possess a lot of practical skill. However, he has watched Dean drive this particular car for years, and she knows Castiel. For the first time in a while, Castiel is actually confident about something. They will make it work.

“I can drive,” he says, because it feels like the truth. “And I still have James Novak's ID and driver's license.”

Sam doesn't look any more convinced, but at least he doesn't try to argue the point again.

“I take it you want to leave right away.”

Castiel nods. “But I would appreciate it if you would let me know how it went.”

Sam raises his eyebrows at him. “I thought you didn't have a phone?”

“I have Dean's phone.”

“Ah.”

Sam goes quiet for a moment, then exhales heavily and fixes Castiel with a look.

“Cas, you know I want to find Dean just as much as you do, and that I appreciate your help. But to be honest, I don't really see how driving around aimlessly is gonna help anyone.”

Castiel doesn't know either. There is no rational reason he can think of that explains why he feels he needs to do this. But if he said as much, Sam for sure wouldn't let him leave, especially not with Dean's car.

“It's strategic,” is what Castiel says. “It's unlikely that I would find any hint of where my Grace is were I to remain in the bunker. And once I have my Grace, I will have an advantage in finding Dean. And if you find something in your research, I could check it out. We could work together.”

What he doesn't say is that he doesn't have any idea where to look for his Grace. It could be anywhere. There's might not even be any of it left.

At least some of that must be obvious to Sam as well, but Sam just nods tightly. Doesn't give voice to what both of them pretend not to realize—that Dean would only ever willingly leave his car behind if he didn't expect to be coming back.

>

Their goodbyes are short.

Castiel goes back to Sam's car with Sam only to retrieve his bags.

Kevin must have watched the whole exchange without being able to hear anything they said. He perked up when Castiel opened the driver's side door, “And?”

Castiel shakes his head. “We don't know where Dean is. I am going to look for him, Sam will drive you to your mother.”

“Oh.” Kevin sinks back in his seat. He looks disappointed.

Castiel thinks that despite his anger, Kevin must care about Dean on some level. It hurts to think how doubtful it is that Dean was aware of this.

When Castiel walks around the car to him, Sam holds a wad of cash and a plastic card out to him.

“Stolen credit card,” he explains when Castiel takes it. “It's close to its 2.000 dollar limit, so—be careful. Pay cash when you can, especially in motels. Never use the card in the same place twice.”

Castiel nods somberly. “Thank you, Sam.”

“Don't mention it.” Sam claps him on the shoulder, a little awkwardly. “Keep us posted, okay?” Then he walks around the hood of the car and to the driver's side.

Castiel watches Sam turn the car around and doesn't move until the tail lights have disappeared around the next corner. Then he walks into the dark of the storage unit.

The car door on the driver's side squeaks when he opens it and he sits down in the seat, puts his bags beside him and closes the door again. For a moment, it's almost like Dean is with him. With the door closed, it's very quiet inside the car. Warmer than outside in the night air.

“Um. Hi,” Castiel says into the silence, uncertainly. He feels slightly foolish, speaking to a car. But it's not like there's anyone else here to witness it. “I'm here because I want to find Dean. And my Grace. And I hope you can help me with that.”

He puts one hand on the steering wheel and slots the key in the ignition with the other. “I must admit it feels very strange talking to a car. But I really—” He falters for a moment, then admits, “I really need your help. I have no idea where to go.”

He takes a deep breath and then turns the key. With a roar, the engine comes alive. Castiel tentatively presses down on the gas pedal and the car lurches forward, making his heart skip a bit and hammer in his chest.

He swallows, “Sorry,” and eases up on the gas, guiding the car on the road very _very_ slowly. He is extremely grateful that Sam, not to mention Dean, isn’t around to see this.

Once they're on the road, Castiel directs the car in the opposite direction Sam chose. He's still driving what must be comically slowly, but after all he has never done this before, and he figures he and Dean's car have still yet to get to know one another.

They arrive at a junction, and Castiel decides to go left. He very carefully signals, although there are currently no other cars on the road. He must admit, sitting behind the wheel of a car is very different from just being a passenger. Although more difficult than he had imagined, since he is not sure he really knows what everything on the dashboard is for. The realization almost makes him panic for a minute, uncomfortable cold sweat breaking out on his back. But he still doesn't stop, doesn't turn around. Deep down, he knows it's foolish what he's doing, not to mention dangerous for both him and Dean's car. But there's another feeling that seems to tell him this is right, that he's finally moving in the direction he ought to go.

Castiel takes a deep breath and forcefully eases his tight grip on the steering wheel. He catches sight of a sign pointing the way towards the highway and decides to follow it.

There are a lot more cars here, all of them speeding past them. Some honk angrily, probably because of him driving so far below the speed limit, but Castiel ignores them. It's far more important that he keeps himself and Dean's car safe.

When there are less cars again, Castiel dares to push a bit more firmly on the gas pedal. The instant rush of speed is incredible and makes his heart pound, and he quickly slows down again. Speeding is a bit like flying, and he thinks he gets now why people do it despite the danger.

He carefully drives for a while longer and starts to feel more confident. But he's also getting tired and his head aches from how hard he's been concentrating. He remembers Sam's advice about motels and cash, and although he would prefer sleeping in a real bed, he decides the backseat of the car will have to do for tonight. Castiel remembers several occasions in which he found Dean sleeping in the back of his car rather than a motel room bed, especially when Sam wasn't with him. It was never in parking lots though, so maybe that is either forbidden or simply too dangerous.

He takes the next chance to get off the highway, a dirt-road that seems to be leading to a small lake. He stops the car when he's sure they can no longer be seen from the road, again causing himself to jerk forward on his seat when he presses too hard on the breaks. Castiel gets out of the car briefly to climb into the backseat. He decides to use the bag that holds his spare clothing as a pillow and his trenchcoat as a makeshift blanket. He takes his shoes off before he lies down and struggles to get into a comfortable position, his fingers curled around the handle of his angel blade.

Castiel has never been alone in this car for any extended amount of time. It's very dark in here, and colder than inside the bunker. He can hear the wind in the trees though, which is kind of nice. It's not quite calming enough for his body and mind to fall asleep though. He never would have thought that being human meant having to feel and need and want constantly. How uncomfortable and exhausting it feels to be tired but unable to sleep.

He's a little hungry right now, his limbs heavy with exhaustion but his mind still buzzing with worried thoughts of what he's going to do tomorrow, of where he's even supposed to drive. He tries to chase these thoughts down to their roots and apply logic to his uncertainties to make them go away, but it's a futile effort. He must be too tired. Maybe it's just that since he Fell, Castiel has never been completely alone until now, at least not for long.

Castiel should focus on finding his Grace fast. It will give him back the focus and the calm he lacks right now. All those emotions that keep drawing his attention away, that sting in his chest or the heaviness in his guts, will be muted again, which is what he knows, and what he needs to complete his tasks.

He rolls over and faces the smooth black leather of the backseat. He stares at it, and finally its dark and blemishless monotony eases him into sleep.

>

There's the distant singing of a bird, quiet and dreamlike, and then the honking of a car horn jolts him fully out of sleep.

Castiel blinks in disorientation and sits up, only then realizing where he is. Late morning sun is shining on the hood of Dean's car. Castiel must have slept longer than he intended. He rubs at his eyes and stretches as best as he can. His neck hurts. Castiel thinks he dreamed something—vague smudges of moving figures, of smoke, glinting teeth, maybe?—but so far, he hasn't been able to remember his dreams. It's a tad disappointing; he had always been curious about human dreams. On the other hand, with the way Dean appears to sleep as little as possible when he's troubled, maybe Castiel should be grateful he doesn't remember his.

His cheeks feel slightly rougher under his hands compared to yesterday. He's also hungry and he needs to pee. All of it instantly makes him irritated. He _hates_ these needs, hates how they're only ever temporarily satisfied and will inevitably demand his time and attention again and again and _again_.

Castiel had thought human beings to be works of art. And he still does, yes, but... He hadn't realized how much of human existence would be devoted to such meaningless, degrading little tasks.

He looks down at where his hands are resting on top of the trenchcoat in his lap, and his heartbeat quickens. He never used to have an issue with the body he was in while he still had his Grace. And lately, he's been too busy to pay attention to it, but now, in these quiet moments, it creeps up at him again. How these are not his hands. They used to belong to another person, a man who he took as his vessel for the greater good. But as with so many other things, Castiel is starting to doubt the righteousness of that action. It is incredibly ungrateful of him, but Castiel can't help but loathe this body he's trapped in, with its strange and endless demands. How it’s just not what he used to be.

His stomach grumbles and he sighs, stops staring at his hands to reach over and check on Dean's phone where the nearest diner is.

Castiel unlocks the screen and sees he has a text message from Sam.

_Combination for lock on weapon's compartment built in trunk: 11-02-83. Forgot that yesterday. Take care Cas._

Castiel had forgotten about it as well. He's starting to realize he didn't really think of a lot of things yesterday.

He knows Sam is trying to be helpful, but he wonders if Sam regrets letting Castiel take the car.

To himself, Castiel can admit that maybe he did it mainly because he did not want to feel alone.

Technically, he _is_ alone. But this car was the first place to offer him safety after he Fell, and so he thinks he doesn't feel as lonely as he could be.

Loneliness is not a feeling that's actually new to Castiel, but it does cut deeper than it used to, now. Technically he has barely been alone since Dean came to get him that first night, but he still at times feels like he is. It's not something that he quite understands.

>

The diner that he manages to find seems reasonably cheap but very busy. He washes his face in the bathroom and dabs at his wet skin with a handful of paper towels. It's certainly different from the spacious shower room with its excellent water pressure in the bunker, but Castiel pushes those thoughts away. Showering there was pleasant, yes, but he won't need those kinds of things anymore once he has his Grace back.

Castiel looks at himself in the mirror and rubs at his cheeks. His face looks different from yesterday, and like every other time he's noticed it, it makes him feel vaguely alarmed. His appearance never used to change, not until he was stripped of all that made him himself. He turns away quickly and exits the bathroom, willing the images of his stubbly cheeks out of his mind.

He chooses a table near the windows overlooking the parking lot. The sun is out, and that's somehow enough to make the bare concrete outside and the smudged glass Castiel is looking through appear beautiful to him.

Castiel is startled out of his reverie by a waitress approaching his table. He looks up at her and smiles. She returns it, but it appears practiced and weary rather than genuine. She looks tired and kind of sad, her eyes glassy and her makeup smudged. Castiel wishes he could still look into people and find out why she's sad, so he could offer her a word of comfort. How do humans do it when they can rely on nothing but the misleading and limited clues of outer appearance?

Castiel orders a coffee, then hesitates. Dean rarely cooked breakfast, and if he did, it was mostly for Sam. It's impossible to say if Dean even always ate breakfast, since they were rarely in the kitchen at the same time. So Castiel would usually eat something he could prepare himself, like cereal or a sandwich. He looks around the diner. The man across from Castiel is digging into a stack of pancakes with blueberries. He doesn't really pay attention to his food, his eyes focused on the newspaper he's reading, but he ordered them and he's eating them, so they must be good.

Castiel places his order and the waitress nods and shuffles off. With nothing better to do, Castiel observes the other occupants of the diner. Most of them look like they're tired and in a hurry. Human and hungry, Castiel feels like one of them in a way he had never before. He used to be content just watching humanity, observing them from afar. Now, he kind of wishes someone would come in and sit at his table with him. Strike up a conversation. Even if they couldn't talk about anything that matters to Castiel, he still thinks he would enjoy it.

The waitress comes back with his order after several minutes. Castiel makes sure to thank her and smile at her again. She doesn't meet his eyes and quickly disappears between the tables again, seeming harried. Castiel would have liked to ask her if she was alright.

He picks up his cup of coffee, and sips on it while he looks outside again. The coffee is not as hot as he's used to, and it tastes different than the one they had in the bunker. Definitely not as good, but maybe that just means it's of a brand or a variety that he happens not to like. There are so many of those, sometimes Castiel likes to just go with what's right in front of him rather than searching endlessly. Maybe that means he has to settle for something less tasteful at times, but it saves him time and energy for more important things.

When he tries his food next, he finds to his dismay that the pancakes are both too dry and far, _far_ too sweet. He frowns at the man in front of him, though logically he knows the man did not purposefully mislead him. The man is gone though—instead there's now a round-figured elderly lady pouring creamer into her coffee. She frowns right back at Castiel, and he realizes she must think he is judging her for—something. He tries to smile apologetically, but the woman's frown only deepens. Castiel keeps his eyes focused on his food then.

He doesn't manage to finish his breakfast, the sweetness of it still cloying on his tongue after he's put a few bills on the table like he has observed other patrons do and stepped back outside.

It's warmer now, the sun high in the sky, and he's actually sweating a bit in his shirt and dress pants. He has other clothes that are maybe closer to what Dean and Sam wear, but he left most of them behind. Even when he was still at the bunker, he hadn't worn them often. Occasionally, when he would chose his clothing in the morning, he'd thought about picking something a little different. But in the end, going with what he knew seemed that much more easy and uncomplicated.

He is starting to regret that now, but there is nothing to be done about it.

Castiel has almost reached Dean's car when he becomes aware of a commotion to his left. Between the dumpsters at the side of the diner and the first row of cars in the parking lot, a man in a suit is yelling at another man with a grocery shopping cart. The man with the cart is ducking his head and scratching at his nose, and the man in the suit hisses another profanity at him and then walks off, stalking past Castiel and to an expensive looking silver car.

The fight, whatever it was about, appears to be over, but Castiel still hesitates. He watches as the man with the cart pushes it towards the dumpsters and then starts to rifle through them. Castiel feels heavy with sadness and guilt when he realizes what the man is searching for.

The man looks up when he notices Castiel approach. He's tall but very thin and wears a lot of layers that appear to be too big for him. The motions of his hands still but he doesn't step away from the dumpster. He looks something between nervous and wary.

“I'm sorry,” Castiel says, trying to sound as unthreatening as possible. “I couldn't help but overhear, and I wanted to see if you were alright.”

The man squints at Castiel, as if not quite sure what to make of that explanation. “Uh. Yeah, man. 's cool.” His teeth are very yellow.

Castiel nods, unsure how to proceed. The cash that Sam gave him suddenly feels heavy as a stone in his pocket. It's his imagination of course—it's just some printed paper. But it seems unreasonably unjust that Castiel can hand it over in exchange for food, while this man has to rifle through filth to find it.

“Here.” Castiel pulls out the money and hands two twenty dollar bills over to the man. “You should eat some breakfast.”

The man hesitantly takes the money, his wary attitude changing to one of extreme gratitude, “God bless you, sir.”

Castiel smiles uncomfortably. He doesn't feel like he deserves the man's praise.

He's just about to wish the man a good day and leave when he realizes that the man is probably around here very often and might be able to help him. “I'm looking for someone. A friend, maybe you have seen him. He's uh,” Castiel struggles for a moment with how to describe Dean. He's never had to do that before. “He's a little taller than me. Short, brown hair. Um... His eyes are green.”

The man shakes his head, looking apologetic. His nervous hands are worrying at the edges of the twenty dollar bills. “No, sir, I'm sorry, sir.”

Castiel nods, though he can't help but feel disappointed. The man nervously licks his lips, then leans closer towards Castiel, dropping his voice. “Look, I've seen this kinda deal before, right? Big flash a' light, and people are just _gone._ 's better not to look for 'em.” He shakes his head in a very grave, somber way. Castiel frowns at him in confusion, but his heart has started to beat faster. If this man has seen something supernatural happen around here, maybe he can actually give him a lead after all.

“What do you mean, gone?”

The man licks his lips again, voice dropping even lower. “Look, I know what's going on 'round here, okay?” He fixes Castiel with an intense, almost manic look. “It's _aliens_.”

Castiel's racing thoughts screech to a halt. He blinks at the man. “Aliens?” he repeats, not sure he heard right.

“Shhhh!” The man holds up a hand and shushes him, ducking his head and looking up in alarm. “They could hear ya.”

“Oh.”

It's not the man's fault, but Castiel can't help but feel disappointed again, and also more than a little bit out of his element.

“Well, I—should go. Thank you for your assistance.”

The man nods enthusiastically, but just when Castiel is about to turn away, he grips him by the arm. He lets go as soon as Castiel stops to look at him, drops his voice so low Castiel has trouble understanding him. “You see them lights, you run, ya hear me? Don't listen to their voices, no matter what they promise. Okay?”

Castiel has no idea what the man is talking about. It appears to be really important to him though, so Castiel nods, “I won't.”

The man straightens and nods again, more to himself than to Castiel. He turns towards the dumpsters again.

>

Castiel closes the driver side door of Dean's car, puts the key in the ignition, but then slumps back in his seat instead of turning it. He feels rattled in a way he can't remember ever having felt before, but he finds himself unable to pinpoint exactly why.

Telling himself the feeling of uneasiness will go away once he gets moving, Castiel turns the engine over and carefully eases his way out of the parking lot. The sky is starting to cloud over and there are a lot of cars on the highway. Castiel forces himself to ignore the road signs telling him in which direction he is driving—he should follow his instincts. The truth is, the road signs make him nervous. They force him to confront that he has no idea where he is going. Every time the panic about that tries to rise, Castiel ruthlessly shoves it away. Tells himself that it makes perfect sense to follow his instinct rather than road signs—if his Grace is out there, surely it is crying out to him, drawing him to it like a compass needle is helplessly drawn to the North. It can't have fallen too far from where he Fell either. He just needs to trust in it, and be patient, and the problem of finding his Grace will solve itself.

Driving is easier today. He even dares to go a little faster. He's starting to discover that driving is also a lot more boring than he'd expected, an uncomfortable blend of having to concentrate constantly and having to do the same things over and over again while being forced to stare at nothing but asphalt and other cars ahead of him. As a passenger he could at least enjoy watching the landscape outside while Dean drove and fiddled with the radio– oh! He had forgotten that he could listen to music. He slows down a bit and takes a hand off the steering wheel to clumsily fumble with the buttons of the radio above the tape deck. He had seen the box full of tapes with fading labels under the front bench, but it felt wrong to touch them. They obviously mean a great deal to Dean. Castiel is already driving Dean's car without Dean's permission. Surely Dean will be angry enough with him as it is.

Castiel flinches when he manages to turn the radio on and noise is suddenly filling the car, but he manages not to swerve out of the line. Once his heart stops beating as wildly and he manages to turn the volume down, he realizes it appears to be a pop music station. In any case, it's not what he thinks Dean usually listens to while driving. Or perhaps Castiel just hadn't payed enough attention to music before?

He leaves the station on, and tries to memorize the names of the songs he finds himself enjoying.

At some point, his back starts cramping. The hollow ache in his stomach also informs him that he's hungry, _again_.

>

The next couple of days go on exactly like this—he drives, stops to stretch his legs or relieve himself, and alternates between sleeping in the car and cheap motel rooms. He purchases a cheap charger for Dean's phone. He runs out of clean clothing at some point and is forced to spend a long very boring two hours in a laundromat. Each time he needs to fill up the tank of Dean's car–which he needs to do a lot more often that he had expected—he fears the clerk will tell him his credit card is maxed out.

He never stays at the motels or the diners long, telling himself it would only be a waste of time. When the motel room has a TV, he watches the news, but then switches it off and goes to sleep. After hearing about the still unexplained “meteor shower” and the series of gruesome deaths and murders worldwide, all involving people that didn't appear to even have known one another at all, he never feels like he deserves to dream of something nice. His conviction that he ought to suffer is sanctimonious in a way—besides vague shadows and blurred out shapes he barely remembers in the morning, he still doesn't dream.

Sam calls him a few times; once to tell him, grimly, that Abaddon is rounding up new meatsuits for her demons, then to inform him she's started mining souls. He doesn't elaborate how he knows, and Castiel doesn't ask. It's nice to hear from Sam, even though every time he calls, Castiel hopes he has tracked Dean down, and feels guilty in return when he can't offer Sam any good news about his brother either.

He misses Dean.

It's the other truth that Castiel pretends he doesn't know; how the busy diners and empty motel rooms make him painfully aware of how lonely his voyage is, and how much more potential loneliness his future holds. He's aware that bringing the angels back to Heaven will ultimately involve fighting Metatron. Castiel might not survive, and even if he does, he doubts he will have a lot of time to spend down here.

At least, with his Grace back, he will feel the loneliness less.

Today, it's been several hours since his breakfast—a watery coffee and a bagel that tasted like what he imagines parchment to taste like. The next time there's a sign informing him of a rest stop, he signals and guides the car off the highway and into a parking slot. To his dismay, the ugly brick building houses nothing but restrooms, and instead of a store or a diner there's nothing but a row of vending machines. One has graffiti sprayed on its side, smeared over like someone attempted to clean it off at some point but gave up halfway through. Castiel stands in front of them for a long time while people walk past him, heading for the restrooms or just stretching their legs, not paying him any attention.

He can't decide, and it frustrates him. It's like when they were at the WallMart, and Castiel found himself overwhelmed with all the choices, all the brands and flavors he did not know. But then, he had Dean to rely on, to provide some guidance in the store's paralyzing chaos. Now, he's on his own.

It's not even that Castiel dislikes being offered choices. He has learned that it's a luxury rather than a burden. But, guiltily, he must admit that he hadn't realized how being human appears to mean _endlessly_ having to make choices, big and small, every single day. Maybe it's shameful, but he finds himself growing tired of it. He glares at the vending machine in front of him. He doesn't recognize any of its contents. More than half of it doesn't even look like food. How is he supposed to choose if he doesn't know the outcome of any of his choices.

He's startled out of his brooding when a woman with a child comes up behind him and he hastily steps aside. The child doesn't appear to share the struggle with choices Castiel is fighting. She points at what appears to be a chocolate bar with almonds, and her mother slots some money in the machine, picking the girl up so she can punch the number for the candy in herself. She giggles joyfully and the sound unexpectedly sends a warm happiness through Castiel's chest.

The feeling only increases when, even though they did not exchange a single word, the child waves at him when they turn back to return to their car. Castiel waves back and finds himself smiling as he does so.

When he turns back to the vending machine, he quickly puts some money in and punches the buttons for a bag of chips and a bottle of water. For reasons that Castiel can't guess, a soda would have been cheaper. But he still remembers that cloying sweetness on his tongue from his breakfast that first morning in the diner, and how badly he had been wanting to brush his teeth after.

He means to head back to Dean's car, but then he spots a row of picnic tables to his left and what looks like a small lake half hidden by pine trees behind them.

There's a bench near the water, and this is where he sits down. Cigarette stubs and gum wrappers are strewn about, and he glares at them. The lake itself is smooth and clear. For the first time since he left the bunker, Castiel feels like he can actually breathe. It's quiet and peaceful and the air smells a lot better. The water is reflecting the blue sky and the puffy white clouds. After hours spent staring at asphalt and the backs of other cars, it's very soothing to look at.

The chips are deliciously salty, but he does feel slightly cheated by how much air there seems to be in the bag. The water from the bottle is refreshing afterwards, he just wishes there was more of it. He's contemplating buying more of it when he walks back and spots a woman leaning against the driver side door of the Impala. She has a backpack slung over one shoulder. Her hair is long and black and she's wearing a bright yellow cardigan over a white blouse. He can't remember seeing her when he arrived here.

She looks up when he comes closer and smiles.

“I know you.”

Castiel stops a few feet in front of her and frowns, wary and confused.

“I don't think so.”

“You're Castiel,” she says. “My name is Hael. We met in Heaven.”

Castiel feels his heart skip a beat in excitement. It's been so long since—

“You're an angel.” He can't help the smile that breaks out on his face. Finally he has found one of his own. For all that has happened, he is still one of them after all.

A brittle look flashes over Hael's face. “Am I? My wings are gone.” She gives him a look as if looking right inside of him. “Your Grace—you've lost it?”

Castiel swallows painfully and nods. “I'm looking for it. That's why I'm, um... On the road.”

Hael looks at him as if she doesn't quite understand. “Our brothers and sisters—can you not hear them? They are so afraid.” She sounds frantic, almost angry. “They're turning on one another, losing their minds. Nothing here makes sense, it's so— _chaotic_.”

Castiel shakes his head, sadness washing through him. “I can't hear them, I'm sorry. I didn't know.” The empty bag in his hand makes a loud crunching sound when he unconsciously clenches his fingers. Hael looks both bitter and disappointed at his words, and he is quick to add, to explain himself, “But I do want to help. All of you. Just, right now, I need to—”

Hael locks eyes with him then. Something almost manic briefly flickering through her expression before it's smoothed over again, like a practiced hand brushing away grains of sand from a sleek surface of stainless steel.

“Help me. _Please_ ,” she pleads, insistently, stepping closer to him. “I'm alone, I'm afraid. And this—” She looks down on herself in disgust and then tugs her cardigan and blouse slightly off one shoulder, revealing skin that is bloody and peeling away. “This vessel won't hold me much longer. It's insufficient, weak, and falling apart. It's _maddening_. I need something else, something faster, _stronger_. And then I saw you have a _car_ that you can drive. Take me with you!”

Castiel feels weighed down by guilt at her words, and torn at her plea. He does want to help all of his brothers and sisters. He will dedicate his life to it if he must. But first he needs to find his Grace, and Dean. He isn't sure she will understand.

He puts his water bottle on the ground and holds up his hands placatingly. “It's okay. Just—please calm down.” He briefly looks around, but none of the other people in the parking lot are paying attention to them. They're too far away to hear them and are preoccupied with other things. A family with two kids is listening to music from their car radio and playing with their little black dog.

“I can take you with me, but you must know that I am looking for my Grace. I can't help anyone without it. And I need to find a friend of mine. He is—he needs my help.”

Hael smiles at him, blindingly so. “I don't mind, Castiel. Just as long as I am not alone.”

Castiel finds himself smiling as well. He starts moving towards the driver side and digs the car keys out of his pocket, the smooth metal heavy in his palm and warmed from his body heat.

Pain explodes all along the left side of his face and he shouts out and stumbles, takes a knee and sways sideways. His left hand is grabbed and the keys are wrung out of his weakened grip–he tries to take them back, but all he manages is an uncoordinated lunge.

“No—” A sharp kick to the ribcage sends him sprawling in the dirt next to the Impala's back tire. His body is aching all over, his heart beating so fast and so hard it's a merciless drum in his ears. He tries to push himself up and tastes blood in his mouth.

“—as if I would accept help from an abomination like you. You're a _traitor,_ Castiel. You speak so highly of saving us, and you haven't even seen what I have seen, endured what I endured!”

Castiel manages to lift himself up slightly, blinks eyes that won't quite focus. Hael is bent over the driver's side door, fumbling the keys into the lock. She's still holding her angel blade in one hand. Her voice is loud and her chest heaving.

The door clicks open.

Castiel forces himself on his knees and lunges at Hael. She's already behind the wheel, but he gets a hold of her sleeve, buries his fingers and his nails in it, drags himself closer.

“Don't do this, Hael, stop!”

She struggles out of the cardigan, flails and kicks at him. He manages to grip her left leg and arm, hauls her out of the seat and scrambles behind it himself, turning the key that was already slotted in the ignition. Dean's car roars to life.

“Don't you dare leave me here, Castiel! Don't you d—”

Hael is trying to grab at him, to hit him. Her mouth is bloody, her hair disheveled. He has to repeatedly kick her to force her away from where she's trying to prevent him from reaching the gas pedal. A kick to the chest sends her flying back on the ground, wheezing.

Castiel moves fast, grabs the backpack she had shoved into the footrest of the passenger side and throws it out to her.

She forces herself up, her fingers smearing blood over the gravel.

“You've sent us all to _die_ here in the mud, Castiel! You don't _see_ us, _hear_ us, crawling in the dirt, howling, _suffering—_ ”

Castiel lunges at the open door, then pushes down _hard_ on the gas pedal. His sister's hoarse screaming is cut off, and Dean's car carries him away with squealing tires.

>

Castiel drives for two hours without stopping, the radio off. His hands are clenched at ten and two around the steering wheel. Every time their shaking gets worse, Castiel grips the wheel tighter. He stares ahead at the horizon the entire time, his head filled with white noise.

He's finally dragged out of his head and back into the here and now by the realization that Dean's car is almost out of gas, again.

They barely make it to the nearest gas station, and when Castiel stands at the counter to pay, he discovers that the fake credit card Sam gave him is gone. He searches his pockets, twice, but it's not there. He must have lost it during his fight with Hael.

“Hey man, you okay?”

The gas station clerk, a young man with dyed hair and bad skin, eyes him warily. Belatedly, Castiel realizes there's still dirt on his clothes and blood at the side of his face. He takes a deep breath and smoothes a hand down his shirt in an attempt to look more presentable.

“Yes, I'm... I'm fine.”

He pays the clerk with the majority of his remaining cash. Ignoring the rumble of his stomach, he goes to the restrooms after, throws metallic smelling water in his face and dabs his skin dry with a handful of paper towels.

He doesn't mean to, but he catches sight of himself in the mirror when he's done. His white dress shirt is dirty all down his right side, and a few drops of blood down the front from where it must have dripped off his split lip. The pain had been a hazy cloud at the back of his mind during the drive, but it's like now that he's looking at himself that the throb at the back of his head and the burn of his lip finally register. The palm of his right hand is bruised as well. Somehow, even though he'd been gripping the steering wheel tightly, he hadn't felt it.

Now, it's a distracting, burning ache, and it only intensifies when he curls the fingers of his hand into a fist. He hisses, stretches the hand out again.

“It hurts.”

Castiel isn't sure who's benefit he is saying this for. His own? He certainly hadn't realized what physical pain as a human was like until now.

More than that, the pain _angers_ him. He needs to _think_ , to come up with some sort of plan. He's almost entirely out of money; the needs and aches of his body are slowing him down, and he doesn't have _time_ for any of it. The encounter with his sister has shown him how dire the angels need is, and how great their resentment of Castiel. But here he is, in some cramped gas station restroom that smells of piss and chlorine, preoccupied with the damage to his vessel and unable to focus his mind.

He leans over the sink, and closes his eyes. He needs to forget what his body is screaming at him. It's not of import. The mission, that's what he needs to focus on. Find his Grace, find Dean, help his brethren. Whatever needs to be done to complete those goals, he will do it.

He takes a deep breath, opens his eyes again but refuses to look at himself. He means to turn away from the sink completely, but then he remembers how thirsty he is. The water bottle he had bought was lost to the fight with Hael as well.

Castiel hesitates at the door and looks back at the sink, his mouth and throat feeling dry as the desert in this moment.

The water, when he drinks it, tastes awful. But his thirst is quenched, and all that remains scraping at the back of throat is guilt and shame.

>

There's a tear in the upholstery of the front seat that Castiel runs his hand over in dismay. He searches the car for the credit card or any cash he might have lost there or forgotten about. Instead, he finds a dog-eared book under the front bench seat.

It looks a little worse for wear, a stain on the side tinging the pages yellow. _Grand Canyon: The Complete Guide_ it says on the front. The cover alternates between white and deep dark red. Two photos show a man on a mule, and boats floating on a river that's cutting through ocher-colored walls of rock.

Castiel turns it around in confusion. It can only have fallen out of Hael's backpack, but why would she own a book like this? She had, after all, made very clear how much she resented being down here.

He puts it on the seat beside himself for now and starts the car. He doesn't have time for this mystery right now. He needs to keep driving.

Castiel stares ahead determinedly, keeps both his hands on the steering wheel, at ten and two like he is supposed to, even though the scrapes on his right hand burn with it. He's decided he needs to move past pain and distractions. Needs to trust in the fact that he is still an angel, and that therefore he and his Grace are bound to find one another again. Everything will get easier once he is reunited with it again. Castiel will know who he is and what he needs to do.

_You've sent us to die here, Castiel!_

“No—”

He takes a deep breath and grips the steering wheel tighter. Tries to push the accusations of his sister away, but there is nothing here to distract Castiel but the bare concrete ahead and the sounds of the cars passing him by. It's not enough; he needs an anchor, needs something to ground him, needs it _now_. He fumbles with the radio, but some button must have gotten pressed during the fight and all that he gets is white noise.

It's only then that he realizes his hands are shaking and his breath is coming faster and faster. He barely manages to signal and park the car on the shoulder before he's curled over the steering wheel, spots dancing in his vision. He blindly fumbles for his bag under the seat, searching frantically for his phone because he _needs_ to call Dean, needs to hear him say that it's gonna be okay, that he's gonna come get him. It's only when he fishes the phone out and holds it in his hands that he remembers this _is_ Dean's phone, and that Castiel has no way of reaching him. But maybe Sam has found something by now, found _Dean_ , can tell him—

Castiel presses the tiny black button on top of the phone but the screen remains dark. It's out of battery.

He lets it fall into his lap and braces himself with one arm on the steering wheel, covers his eyes with his hand, fights to get the shudder out of his breathing. His ears are ringing and his throat hurts.

“Dean, _please—_ ”

“Oh, suddenly we are the praying type? I dare say, the tables have turned quite drastically.”

Castiel flinches hard, tenses instinctively and whips his head around.

Wearing a wrinkled black suit with a red carnation flower in his breast pocket, Crowley is lounging in the shotgun seat, inspecting the travel guide book. “I always knew you were fairly _dense_ , but _naive_? You think you can go full on Mack, park on the wrong side of the tracks, get rescued by Simon, and then road trip to the Grand Canyon together and realize how utterly insignificant your lives are? Granted, a little bit of perspective might do that bloated ego of yours wonders, but I doubt even _The Big Chill for the 90s_ would be powerful enough to make the lesson stick.”

Castiel stares at him. “I—what?”

Crowley rolls his eyes and sighs dramatically, then chucks the book into the footrest. “I see philosophy is still a wasted effort even on the _ex_ -celestials. Fine. I'll be your Simon and tell you to stop wallowing and _get off your ass—_ I didn't come all this way just to listen to you moaning about how hard it is to be a sack of fragile bones and sensitive _feelings_!”

Castiel straightens at that and scowls at Crowley. “I did not ask you to come here! And how would _you_ know what's it like being human?”

Crowley narrows his eyes at him. “Even in your current position you're feeling comfortable to _judge_ me? Obviously Isaiah was mad as a March hare when he said God's judgment coming upon the earth would teach people righteousness.”

He sniffs as if repulsed and shakes his head, and Castiel levels him with a withering glare. “I don't have time to discuss theological issues with you. Tell me why you're here or go away.”

Crowley swipes non-existent dust off his black dress pants.

“Let's say I knew where Dean was—”

Castiel straightens immediately. “Tell me,” he demands.

Crowley shoots him an impatient look. “And let's say I didn't even demand any kind of quid pro quo in return for that _precious_ bit of information.”

Castiel stiffens, suspicious. “How do you even know where Dean is, when all of a few days ago you claimed to neither know, nor have any way of finding him.”

Crowley looks at him, disappointment evident on his face. “ _Please_. You think I wouldn't be able to find one Dean Winchester, after knowing him _intimately_ for _so many_ years? It was simply in my best interest for none of you lot to intervene—best interest of the rest of the world as well, if I may add.”

Castiel swallows down the sour taste of jealously at Crowley's words, and forces himself to focus. “And you're helping me now why? How is helping me find Dean in your best interests, exactly?”

Crowley shrugs, plucks the red carnation from his pocket and rolls the stem between his fingers while be watches the cars fly by outside with a bored expression on his face. “Never said it was.”

Castiel eyes him in confusion, trying to make sense of that strange statement. Crowley is still plucking at the flower like he couldn't care less, but underneath his carefully controlled expression is something else Castiel can't quite describe. An edge of vulnerability, maybe, that Castiel would have never expected to find in Crowley of all people.

“You have changed.”

If Crowley is surprised by his words, he doesn't show it. He just shrugs again, his tone off-hand when he says, “Haven't we all?”

Castiel slumps in his seat and looks down at his hands, curled in his lap. He had washed the dirt and blood off his hands at the gas station restroom, but does that mean it’s really gone? He had learned years ago that not all kinds of taints were visible. He had just thought himself above something like that, and above many other things as well.

“I'm not sure,” he admits, his shoulders slumping.

Crowley makes a sound halfway between a pitying sigh and an expression of disgust.

“Come on, what's with the hangdog expression? You know what, you should eat something. Here, have a muffin.”

When he looks up, Castiel sees that Crowley is holding a chocolate muffin out to him with an expectant expression.

“Um...” Castiel reaches out and takes the offered pastry, body moving on autopilot, weirded out beyond words by how much Crowley reminds him of Dean in this moment.

Crowley leans back in his seat and starts picking delicately at a second muffin that has just appeared in his hands. Castiel looks down at his own apprehensively. “What are these made of?”

Crowley looks downright affronted.

“They're from Starbucks, you faint-hearted pigeon. You think if I wanted to kill you I wouldn't do it more creatively? The nerve of some people.”

Crowley doesn't offer any more explanation, and Castiel decides against asking what a Starbucks is. He is fairly sure he would only receive further mockery for his troubles. Finding that he doesn't have a whole lot to lose, he tries the muffin.

It's _delicious_.

The dark chocolate is rich and velvety but not too sweet. He instantly feels better for having something in his stomach, warmer too. Weirdly enough, he even feels kind of content.

He's eaten more than half of the pastry by the time the surreality of the situation catches up with him again. Here is, a former soldier and strategist of Heaven, Fallen and ostracized, eating muffins in the car of his best friend with the King of Hell.

“This is—bizarre,” he mumbles through a bite, still mesmerized by how something as mundane as a muffin could make him feel so much better.

Crowley appears to harbor no such reservations.

“Sometimes the only way out is embracing all that you are and learn to live with it.” He shrugs, then crumbles up the little paper liner the muffin was in. Castiel tenses momentarily, expecting Crowley to just throw it on the dashboard, but Crowley makes it disappear with a swift motion of one hand. “God knows it's a lesson Squirrel could benefit from learning as well, but maybe he's been torn apart too often to find all the pieces again.”

Something flashes through Crowley's expression too quickly for Castiel to catch, a shadow of what might be sadness, or regret. He's about to ask Crowley what he means, when he suddenly realizes something else.

“Wait. If you truly don't care anymore if we 'intervene', does that mean—”

Crowley's momentarily, almost open expression becomes guarded again, though it appears to be more out of habit than anything else. He smirks.

“The mighty have fallen, the queen is dead. Or well, mostly dead. I bet she wishes she were.”

Castiel sets the muffin down in his lap, instantly alerted. “How,” he demands, flatly.

The eyes that meet his have lost their warmth, the cold fires of Hell once again dancing in their shadows.

“The beast fell for the beauty, and was subsequently torn apart by Hellhounds. What's left of her is now exactly where she wanted to be—in the deepest circles of Hell. Chained by the bounds of rage and despair, for the rest of eternity.”

An icy feeling spreads through Castiel, making the hairs on his arms stand up and his heartbeat stutter. “And Dean?”

The cold flames simmer and die in Crowley's eyes again. Instead he looks a blend of tired and defensive.

“Mostly alive.” He picks at the bench seat's upholstery, then scrunches up his face for a moment like he's about to say something he's not sure he should be saying. “Not sure if he wants to be.”

Castiel's heart skips a beat, then sends little pinpricks of pain through his chest. He barely manages to get the words out through his gritted teeth, “Where is he?”

Crowley presses his lips together, then gives Castiel a long, searching look. “Last I heard, he was somewhere near Salt Lake City, headed north. Lucky for you, he's only about three hours ahead of you. Try the cheapest, most run-down motels you can find once it's nighttime.”

Castiel rubs at his temples in frustration. “I'm almost out of—”

When he lifts his head again, the seat beside him is empty.

“... money,” he finishes, then scowls and looks around but Crowley is truly gone. “Asshole,” he exclaims to no one in particular.

With a sigh, he puts the rest of his muffin aside for later, and turns the key in the ignition again.

>

Castiel pays meticulous attention to the road signs now. It's only just fully gotten dark, so Castiel means to drive past Ogden, convinced that Dean wouldn't stop to sleep that soon. But when he happens to look at the dashboard, he realizes that the car is dangerously low on gas.

“What—”

He frowns at the display. They haven't driven nearly far enough to empty the tank. Still, they have barely gotten off the highway and rolled into a parking lot in front of the first motel that Castiel saw when the car stops. When he turns the key, nothing happens. Nothing even makes a sound.

He slumps back in the seat. “This is bad.”

There's not much of a choice though–he needs to call someone about the car tomorrow, and for that he needs to charge Dean's phone. If he slept in the parking lot he would surely get into trouble for it, but he barely has any money left. Supposing he can at least ask how much a room is, maybe try and explain his situation, he drags his bag out from under the seat.

Something small and light rolls off the bag and falls between Castiel's feet. When he picks it up, he realizes it's a couple of bills rolled up like a cigarette and held together by a rubber band. When he takes it off, five ten dollar bills flutter in his lap.

He stares at them, caught between confused and suspicious. He knows he had searched thoroughly through his bag and under both the front and back seat earlier. He couldn't have overlooked something like this. Or could he? He doesn't believe Crowley would do such a thing—especially since the rubber band appears very worn and the bills crinkled and slightly discolored at the edges. Crowley seems like someone who prefers things sharp and smooth and well organized.

Hael must have lost the bundle in their struggle. But if that's the case, where was it until now?

In the end, Castiel decides not to question his luck. Worry about the car and exhaustion from the day are weighing down equally heavily on his shoulders.

The woman at the reception is wearing a knitted blue cardigan and has very blond hair, and she gives him a friendly if practiced smile when he asks her how much their cheapest room costs a night.

“Seventy for one night. It comes with free breakfast and Wi-Fi.”

Castiel's shoulders slump with relief. Together with the money he just found, that's exactly how much he has left.

It also means that tomorrow, he won't have anything left at all. But he refuses to think about that as he hands the money over and receives the key card in return after the woman has checked him in.

Though the reception area looked nice and clean, the rooms are less so. The bedspread is so ugly it's impossible to make out any stains on it, and Castiel guesses that might be for the best.

The water isn't very hot and the shower tiles are showing signs of mildew, but Castiel still feels his muscles relax while he stands under the spray. That also gives him opportunity to think though, and by the time he's changed into a new set of wrinkled but clean dress pants and a shirt, he's nervous and anxious again. The car won't start and he's completely out of money. Hunger is clawing at his insides as well again, something he has managed to ignore so far, but that he knows will only get worse with time.

And all the while, Dean is only getting further and further away from him. He can't search for his Grace either if he's stranded, and without it he can't do anything, can't be of help to anyone.

He should plug Dean's phone in its charger and call Sam, explain all he's learnt from Crowley. Admit that he's probably stuck here. But—it's late. Surely it won't make any difference if Castiel calls him in the morning instead of now.

Castiel sits down with his back against the wall behind the bed, and switches on the TV. He skips past any news programs, simply unable to handle any more upsetting information. He settles on some kind of comedy show that appears to feature various animals on skateboards, but before he can find out the name of the show—much less its purpose—he falls asleep.

>

There's a loud thump close to Castiel's head, and he jolts awake. The muffled sounds of ragged breathing are coming from the other side of the wall. Then there's another thump, like something heavy just crashed to the floor, followed by a pain-laced groan. Then silence.

Castiel sits up in his bed, frowning at the wall. His room is dark and quiet. He must have managed to turn the TV off at some point even though he doesn't remember it, or maybe he rolled over the button on the remote in his sleep. No further sounds are coming from the room on the other side, but Castiel is still concerned. Maybe someone fell and needs help? He can't just go back to sleep and ignore this.

Having slept in his clothes, he only needs to put his shoes and his suit jacket back on. He carefully pockets the key card and steps out of his dark room and into the dimly lit hallway.

Hoping he hasn't misinterpreted the situation and is actually going to wake someone up, he knocks on the door.

For a long minute, nothing happens. Maybe the person did get hurt and is unconscious? What should he do? Should he get help? What if—

There's the noise of the lock being undone, and Castiel starts in on his apology before the door has even fully opened.

“I'm very sorry, I—”

His breath gets stuck in his throat and his words do as well. He doesn't understand.

“Cas, what the hell are you doing here?”

Dean blinks blood-shot eyes at him, his expression conveying his utter confusion. His cheeks are a bit more stubbled than usual and very pale. He's wearing a gray-ish flannel over a black t-shirt, jeans and boots. One of his arms is strategically concealed from view behind the door.

“I'm–” Castiel tries to string together words, but it's frustratingly difficult. He hadn't expected this at all, and now he doesn't know how to react. “I was just—concerned that— _Dean_.”

Dean stares at him for a moment longer, then suddenly straightens, green eyes scanning the corridor left and right. Then he steps back, motions with his head. “Come in. Just don't mess up the salt lines.”

Castiel follows him, carefully checking where he steps. There's a line of salt along the doorway, and another, darker one. It looks like—“Is that goofer dust?”

Dean nods, and closes the door behind him again.

“Dean, why are you warding yourself against Hellhounds?”

Dean shoots him a quick look, then puts the shotgun back down that he had held in the hand Castiel couldn't see. He appears thinner than when Castiel last saw him, his shoulders slumped. Despite the exhaustion obvious in the shadows under his eyes, he offers Castiel a weak smile. “C'mon, let's uh… sit down.”

The covers of Dean's bed are very rumpled, which he appears to be strangely embarrassed by, so Castiel sits down in the only stool the room has and turns it so that he can face Dean, who slumps down on the end of his bed. His movements are stiff and his posture defeated, and his hands are restless in his lap.

“So, uh. How did you find me?” Dean asks, completely ignoring Castiel's question. Castiel decides to let it go for now.

“I didn't. I mean—the car just stopped.”

“The car?”

“Yes. Um... Your car,” Castiel admits, bracing himself for the inevitable storm.

“My—you drove _Baby_ here?!” Dean's eyes almost bug out of his head. Castiel cringes internally.

“Yes. I'm sorry, I just thought she might help me. Somehow.” Castiel frowns at his own words. “Which, come to think of it, I guess she did.”

Dean stares at him in astonishment for another moment. “But—she's okay?”

“I think so. I believe she's merely out of gas.”

Castiel still expects Dean getting angry, but instead Dean chuckles, and drags a hand over his face. He's smiling, and Castiel finds himself smiling as well, until he notices the sadness in Dean's smile and Dean's next words register with him.

“I guess it don't matter anyway.” Dean looks off to the side, the smile slowly sliding off his face. He's sitting barely two feet from Castiel, and yet he seems miles away.

“What do you mean, it doesn't matter?”

Dean shoots him a quick look, then he licks his lips and his gaze falls to the floor.

“Look, just—forget about it, okay?”

Castiel frowns, not understanding.

“Forget about what?”

Dean won't look at him.

“That you found me.”

The breath gets caught in Castiel's throat. For a long moment, all words escape him.

“Why?” He finally manages to croak out.

Dean drags in a deep breath, then winces. His hands go up to his chest and then freeze halfway there and fall back into his lap. He rubs on the inside of one palm with his thumb.

“'Cause then you can keep going.”

“Dean—”

“Why're you here, Cas?”

Castiel straightens, balls his hands into fists over his knees. Dean doesn't react.

“It's—I was looking for you.”

Dean finally looks up again, locks eyes with him. There's something behind the dulled green that Castiel can't read.

“You found me. What now?” He smiles a bit, patiently but still sad.

“I don't—we go back to the bunker.” That should be obvious, right? Castiel doesn't understand.

Dean swallows, licks his lips again. His gaze settles on the floor at some point halfway between the both of them. He sounds pained. “Cas—”

“Crowley told me that's it's done, Dean. That Abaddon is defeated. Kevin is with his mother and Sam is at the bunker. And I—” He realizes he's about to say he wants to go back there—go _home_ as well, only he hadn't known he was going to say that. How can he mean it? He can't stay there. He needs to look for his Grace, then help the angels, and then help Heaven. He won't be able to stay, even though he—

Even though he wants to.

He wants to stay.

Dean's eyes flicker briefly up to his. They look glassy. The corners of his mouth twitch like he's trying to smile but can't quite manage it.

“So it's all good, huh?”

Castiel swallows. He doesn't understand why his throat feels so strangled.

“Yes,” he says. It is, isn't it? But he feels like a complete liar.

Dean nods, his gaze falling away once more. “Hm.”

For a long moment, neither of them seem to know what to say. Castiel looks around the motel room in a desperate search for a change of topic. For answers as to why Dean is behaving so strangely.

The only light is coming from the bedside lamp over Dean's left shoulder. The one to the right is lying broken on the floor. The covers are rumbled so Dean obviously did sleep in the bed, and yet he's fully clothed. There's a single duffel bag on the side of the bed with the broken lamp. The window sill is lined with salt and goofer dust as well.

“Dean, is—”

“So, how you doing?” Dean talks over him quickly, a clear attempt at a diversion. He does sound honestly curious though, his eyes earnest when they meet Castiel's.

“I'm—” Castiel briefly contemplates giving an easy answer, but then decides on something more truthful. Maybe that will encourage Dean to open up about himself as well. “Exhausted. The last days weren't easy. I'm out of money and I'm hungry. An angel attacked me earlier and the back of my head and my right hand still hurt.”

Dean frowns and then gets up and comes over to Castiel, something about his movements still off. He crouches down in front of Castiel, and motions for his hand. When Castiel reaches his right hand out to him, Dean takes it between both of his, turns it around, and hisses in sympathy when he sees the inside of Castiel's palm. The scrapes have stopped bleeding, but seeing as it's his right hand and he hasn't exactly been resting it over the last few hours, the skin is still raw and red and angry.

“Did you disinfect it?

Castiel shakes his head. Dean's fingers are cool against his skin. It throws him in a strange way. He remembers how warm and steady Dean's touch used to feel.

Dean gets up and rummages through his duffel, his spine stiff as he bends. He comes back with a paper towel and a bottle of Jack Daniels. “'s gonna sting, but trust me, better than infected cuts.”

Castiel watches silently as Dean applies the alcohol soaked tissue to his palm. It does sting, but Castiel is distracted enough not to notice it too much. This close, Castiel becomes aware that Dean smells of alcohol as well, though he does not appear to be drunk. Dean's breathing is very flat. The edge of a bandage is peeking through the collar of his T-shirt. Without thinking, Castiel reaches out a hand.

“Dean, are you hurt?”

Dean flinches and bats Castiel's hand away. Then one corner of his mouth tugs up in a smirk that doesn't reach his eyes. “It's just a flesh wound.”

For some reason he apparently expects that to either be reassuring or amusing or both, but to Castiel it's neither. Dean doesn't seem to notice. “Hey, your lip's split.” He throws the tissue he had been wiping over Castiel's palm with into the nearby trashcan and prepares another one. When he raises it to Castiel's mouth, their eyes lock, and Dean freezes. He swallows, then coughs awkwardly and straightens with a grimace, holding the tissue out to Castiel. “You know, you uh. It's easy, just clean it up a little with this, you'll be fine.”

Castiel nods mutely and takes the soaked paper towel out of Dean's hand, who turns around halfway, his now empty hands twitching at his sides. Castiel wipes the tissue over the area on his bottom lip where the skin has split. It burns, but he tries to ignore it. Dean's eyes flicker to the window and then back down to the floor.

Castiel stands up and throws the tissue into the trashcan. It barely makes a noise when it lands, but Dean's hand curls into a fist before he appears to force it open again, his face resolutely turned away.

Castiel steps up to him, carefully takes one of Dean's hands in his. Dean goes completely still, his eyelids fluttering shut. He doesn't pull away, but he sounds almost afraid when he asks, flatly, “Cas, what are you doing.”

Castiel presses his thumb gently into Dean's palm, watches the subtle clench of his jaw. Feels Dean's skin slowly absorb Castiel's body heat.

“Dean, tell me what's going on. Please.”

Dean swallows but stays silent.

“Crowley has no reason to send Hellhounds after you. Now that his position is secured again, there's no one else who can control them. Abaddon's followers–”

“It's—” Dean interrupts him, then falls silent again. He opens his eyes again but with his head bowed and turned to the side, his gaze is lost somewhere to Castiel's right. “I don't know if they're really there, okay?”

Castiel is stunned silent for a moment, while alarm makes his heart speed up. “Dean, what do you mean by that?”

Dean grimaces, then steps back, his hand slipping out of Castiel's grasp.

“I hear them but I don't—” He gestures vaguely towards the window, his eyes flickering nervously from one point to the next, never settling on anything for long. He steps towards the window, appears to stare outside into the dark of the parking lot. His hand bumps the window sill, but he stays clear of the lines drawn there. “It's just this—howling. Every time I close my eyes. Ever since—” He stops, seems to get lost in his own head for a moment before he continues, his voice raspy and forlorn. “I'd known she was closing in on me for a while. I called Crowley, told him it was time. I couldn't see them, couldn't hear them—but I knew they were there. I just—I know.”

Dean falls silent, then blinks, steps away from the window. Rubs at his temples. “Uh. Sorry, don't know why I just told you that. It's done anyway, like you said.” His eyes flicker to Castiel's again. “It's all good now, right?” He looks desperate, but Castiel can't determine if it's for him to say yes or to say no to that question.

“I don't know, Dean.”

It's the truth. But Dean looks at him like Castiel just punched him in the face. He swallows, then eyes Castiel as if only now actually seeing him. “You—you didn't find it?

Castiel blinks, thrown off track by the sudden change of topic. “Find what?”

“Your Grace.”

Oh.

“No. Not yet.”

Dean nods tightly, not looking at Castiel directly. “Oh, hey, you said you're hungry, right?” He grabs his bag and starts digging through it until he comes up with an unopened packet of beef jerky that he hands to Castiel. He sounds chagrined when he says, “That's all I got, sorry.” When Castiel accepts it and thanks him, he looks almost ashamed.

Dean sits down on the end of his bed again, rubs a hand down his face. Asks the carpet, “How's Sam?”

Castiel regards him for a moment, then sits down in the stool facing the bed again. Clasps his hands between his knees. “The last I heard your brother was doing well. He is concerned about you though.”

Dean's hands twitch, and his eyes briefly flicker up to Castiel's. “So he's not dying yet?” His hands curl into fists and he appears to force them to lie flat on his thighs again.

Castiel frowns at him, until he realizes that Dean only knows what Sam told him when they'd last seen one another. “Sam changed his mind. He's fine, Dean.”

Dean's eyes snap up to his, wide with shock. Then the forlorn look returns to them, and he swallows, leans back.

“Oh. That's—”

He trails of, doesn't continue.

The silence stretches while Castiel eats the beef jerky. It doesn't taste great, but at least it eases his hunger somewhat. Before Castiel can think of anything to say, Dean takes a breath, looks at him again, “What about you, you doing okay?”

Castiel frowns at him in confusion.

“Dean, you already asked me that.”

Dean stares at him, wide-eyed, his cheeks and the tips of his ears tinged pink. “Right. Um... Maybe I should sleep.”

Castiel suspects it's an attempt at a diversion, since Dean sounds the opposite of enthusiastic about the idea. Or maybe Castiel is just reading too much into the way Dean scowls and plucks at the bedspread that is equally as ugly as the one in Castiel's room.

He stands up and is about to wish Dean a good night when something gives him pause. Dean's shoulders are rounded, like he's trying to hide in plain sight, and Castiel is filled with dread at the thought of leaving him alone.

Castiel takes a breath, stands up straighter, and fixes Dean with a look.

“Dean, if I leave now, will you still be here in the morning?”

Dean doesn't say anything in reply, but the clench of his jaw and the way his eyes remain glued to a spot on the floor says it for him.

Castiel exhales forcefully, runs a hand through his hair in frustration. “I'll be right back,” he gets out through clenched teeth, unlocks the door with the key card lying on the table. Steps carefully over the lines and leaves the door open behind himself.

He only grabs his bag and the pillow, blanket and bedspread from his bed, then hurries back to Dean's room.

Dean is sitting just where he left him, elbows on his knees, his forehead resting on his hands. He looks up when Castiel enters, a confused frown on his face.

“Cas, what are you doing?”

Castiel steps over the lines, careful not to disturb them with the edges of the blanket, and drops them on the floor two feet from Dean's bed. Directly between Dean and the door.

“I'm sleeping here,” Castiel explains matter-of-factly.

Dean's eyes almost bug out of his head. “You—” He sputters for a moment. “ _Cas—_ this carpet is shit and probably full of germs.”

Castiel spreads the blanket on the floor, and arranges his pillow on it. He shrugs in response to Dean's words. “I'm sure I will survive.”

Dean huffs, but it's without humor. There's an edge to his voice when he says, “You know I could just sneak past you once you're sleeping.”

Cas scowls at where he's tugging the bedspread over his legs.

“Then I won't sleep,” he says decisively.

Dean is grimacing when Castiel looks up at him, rubbing at his forehead again, effectively hiding most of his expression from view.

“Cas—”

Castiel shakes his head.

“You're tired, Dean. We can talk about this in the morning.”

Dean's jaw clenches, but he doesn't say anything more. He turns away from Castiel, lies down on his side with his back to him, still wearing his boots. He makes no move to turn off the lamp on the side of the bed he's curled toward, the broken one still lying two feet away from Castiel on the floor.

The shock of seeing Dean again has made Castiel forget to ask what the noise was that made Castiel come here in the first place. He'd only heard a thump, but not the breaking of glass.

Castiel lays down on his back in the semi-dark. He stares up at a water stain on the ceiling while his heart rate slows down. Dean was right about the carpet–it smells like burned plastic and is very hard under Castiel's back, even through the blanket he's lying on.

His eyes are starting to droop, and he forces them open again. Dean is lying completely still on the bed. Castiel can barely make out the rise and fall of his side as he breathes.

He turns away, and carefully digs the travel guide book out of his duffel. Maybe this will help him stay awake.

It turns out it's too dark to really read much. But if he shifts a bit on his side, enough light falls onto the pages of the book that he can make out the pictures. He studies each one, flips the pages until he finds one that must have been taken from the vantage point of some kind of plateau. It overlooks several smaller canyons and valleys, the rock deeply fissured, the surface showing warm red and brown tones where the sun is touching them. The plateau must be very high, for clouds can be seen in the distance, white and soft, and very low above the rugged landscape. The sky above is very blue and seemingly endless.

Why did Hael have this book? Was she planning on traveling to the Grand Canyon?

Castiel isn't sure he can believe that. His sister appeared to harbor nothing but hate and disgust for life on Earth.

Castiel flips further through the book.

It can't have been nostalgia either, he thinks. Heaven is nothing like the Grand Canyon, after all.

Castiel shifts a bit so that more light falls onto the pages of the travel guide.

“ _Perhaps the traveler has visited the Himalayas, the plains of East Africa, the Land of the Midnight Sun. But nothing, absolutely nothing, the traveler could ever have experienced can prepare him for those few steps up to the railing. Suddenly the earth rushes away, and he confronts an abrupt immensity, a hundred great cliffs in one gaze, an apparently endless series of fall-offs dropping out of the bright afternoon down through corridors of blue shadow and into dark abyss far below. If the world were flat and had an edge, it might look like this. If there were a single place on earth where the day began and the day ended, it would be here.”_

Castiel lingers over the words even though he can't say why. It's not like he has ever been there. He flips the page.

“ _The Grand Canyon is, in fact, not one canyon, but hundreds. Every mile or so along the 278-mile length of the main gorge, a tributary canyon joins in. The larger of these side canyons in turn branch off into their own side canyons, the net result being a labyrinth of buttes, buttresses and breaches out of which it is sometimes impossible to distinguish the main channel of the Colorado River. And all along the section where the canyon is widest, some 18 miles across, the Colorado River is the least apparent from the rim, indeed entirely invisible from some viewpoints. The river that has made one of the greatest cuts on the earth's surface is a hidden river.”_

Castiel studies the photo on the side. The high cliff on the left is the color of rust, and far below–three thousand feet the caption informs him–the river cuts like a band of liquid silver through the landscape.

“What're you reading?”

Castiel almost flinches with the suddenness of Dean's exhaustion roughened voice behind him. He rolls on his other side to face him and holds the book up so Dean can see the cover.

Dean frowns, but it looks more like confusion that disapproval.

“Travel guide? You planning on making a pit stop before you—?” He makes a vague gesture with one hand that Castiel takes to mean going back to Heaven. “'Cause otherwise that's gotta be boring as hell to read.”

Castiel ignores Dean's question, explains instead, “It's not mine. Or, I guess, it is now. I think it fell out of Hael's bag when we fought.”

“Hael?”

“The angel I met.” Castiel can tell that Dean is about to ask about what exactly happened, so he asks Dean the first thing that comes to his mind. “Have you ever been there?”

“The Grand Canyon?” Dean shifts, props his head up on one arm and rubs the knuckles of his other hand over his bruised eyes. “Not sure. Sam says we went there when we were kids, but his temperature was like 107 at the time, so.” He shrugs. Blinks at the shadows his body is throwing on the sheets with the light behind him, as if fighting sleep.

Castiel thinks of Crowley's words, of Mack and Simon, whoever they are. But he doesn't want Dean to road trip to the Grand Canyon and realize his insignificance in the face of its cliffs and valleys. Quite the opposite. He wants Dean at peace. Wants him to feel elated when he sees the wide blue sky and the warm colors of the rock face. Castiel could go with him, stand beside him and just breathe. And not feel uprooted because of the wide blue sky above, but grounded, because he's right where he's supposed to be.

He doesn't want Dean to go there alone. Surely Sam would come with, but Dean's brother might want to look at a side canyon, walk a different road. Castiel doesn't want Dean alone there, surrounded by desert and thin air, and strangers who won't care about him.

The surge of protectiveness Castiel experiences in reaction to his own thoughts is difficult to contain. And it's only made stronger by how guilty Castiel feels at the same time. He wants to promise Dean to accompany him there, and he can't.

“Would you like to see it?”

Dean's tired eyes meet his, only for a moment. The expression in them is difficult to discern with the lack of light, but Castiel feels as connected to Dean in that instant as if he had a hand pressed to his beating heart. Only when Dean shifts his gaze away and sits up halfway, away from Castiel, he realizes how much he has missed this feeling. Missed Dean, and how Dean always makes him feel like he belongs.

“What I'd like to see is you not getting sick because you slept on that germ factory of a carpet. C'mon, up you go.” Dean isn't looking at him while he motions impatiently.

Castiel frowns at him, thrown at the abrupt change in topic. “Up where exactly?”

Dean groans, rolls his eyes dramatically. “Up on the bed, you dweeb. C'mon, I wanna sleep.”

Castiel sits up but continues to frown at Dean, who is now shifting further away, fighting with the bedspread, and studiously avoiding looking at Castiel.

“Dean, I'm not going to sleep anyway.”

Dean sighs explosively. “Yes, you are. 'm not gonna crawl past you on my belly and run off in the middle of the night, Cas, I'm not _that much_ of an asshole.”

“Dean—”

“Just shut up and get up here,” Dean grumbles, turning to lie down on his side on the far edge of the mattress, his back to Castiel.

Castiel suppresses a sigh of his own, standing to gather up his pillow and comforter, feeling like all of this is very much unnecessary.

He has to admit though, that the mattress feels decidedly more forgiving and comfortable on his back than the floor. The sheets smell like what he assumes is very cheap fabric softener; an overly artificial blend of flowers and soap.

The sheets in the bunker had been softer and smelled better, he realizes now. They had felt like the way sunlight feels on his skin, and smelled like the air had around the lake were he'd sat before encountering Hael.

Castiel lies on his back and tries to catalog all of these sensation one by one. It's also warmer up here. It must be due to Dean's body heat.

Dean is lying only a foot away from him. The last time they had been this close, Dean had been sick.

It had felt so nice when Dean had touched his hands that first night in the bunker. Castiel would have expected to have forgotten about it by now, but apparently he hasn't.

The realization makes want rise up within him, so strong it almost has a painful edge. It speeds up his heart and confuses him momentarily, until he understands it as desire to feel that way again.

It's such a small thing, or it ought to be. A desire such as this should be completely insignificant in the face of the obstacles and responsibilities they're all struggling with. But he hadn't known touch could feel like this. Had never experienced it without his Grace acting as a buffer between himself and his vessel.

Dean is lying so still. He is so close. It would be no effort at all to reach out and put his hand between Dean's shoulder blades. Feel the softness of his flannel, the strength in his broad back, the warmth of his whole being.

“Cas, I can _hear_ you thinking,” Dean says, his voice slightly muffled. “Go the fuck to sleep.”

Castiel harrumphs and shifts in the bed, lacing his fingers together over his stomach, even though it makes his sore palm twinge a bit. He stares upwards at the water stain again, so this newly discovered desire won't keep tempting him. Maybe it will go away on its own if he ignores it.

The water stain looks different from this angle, and of course it's closer now than it was when he was lying on the floor. It looks less like a very big rabbit now and more like—hm. A wolf, maybe, if he tilts his head slightly to the side. Or a coyote. They're smaller than wolves. Yes, that fits.

He thinks about what he knows about coyotes to keep himself awake.

They typically hunt in pairs and do not form packs. They carry their tails lower than dogs do. They're considered to be good parents. They prefer to hunt by night. They're very adaptable and able to survive near human habitation by eating whatever is available.

Sometimes their calls are described as “human-like” laughing, hollering, or talking.

His eyes are sliding shut. Castiel blinks, trying to force them to stay open. The coyote starts to look more like a smudge, then a shadow, as the warm softness of the bed pulls him under.

>

There are shadows around him, on all fours, and they are moving. They're black and flickering, like he's watching them through a wall of heat. The ground and the sky are one, and they're the color of burnt sienna.

The shadows are crowding in closer.

What is he doing here?

He can see now that some of them are walking upright, but their mouths are maws. Black yawning chasms. Maybe he should run, but fear and confusion are rooting him to the spot.

There are voices in the air. They're very loud. Some of them are deep and echoing, like they're coming from the very bottom of a well. Others are high and cackling, almost bird-like.

The shadows are _talking_ with one another, he realizes, but they're speaking in tongues he does not understand.

He is terrified, but he reaches out a hand to the one closest to him—

A door opens and Castiel is startled awake at the sound, pushes himself up into a sitting position so fast it makes black spots dance in his vision.

He squeezes his eyes shut, forces himself to take deep breaths. His heart is hammering, it's a drum in his ears.

“Cas? You okay?”

He opens his eyes again, his eyes darting around, feeling panicked. He's on the bed, the covers twisted around him. The travel guide book isn't on his nightstand anymore but is lying face-down on the end of Dean's side of the bed. Dean himself is standing in the open door to the bathroom across from him. The shadows under his eyes look darker than yesterday and he's toweling at the wet spikes of his hair.

It slowly dawns on Castiel that he fell asleep at some point. But Dean is still here. He had been so certain Dean would disappear again if he let himself sleep.

Castiel is still staring at him, and Dean flushes under the scrutiny. He turns his head to the side and coughs, “How'd you sleep?” His voice is rough and his eyes keep darting away from Castiel.

His sudden shy demeanor throws Castiel so much that he needs a moment to gather his thoughts.

“Um... Well, actually.” Then he remembers what happened right before the sound of the door woke him. “I think I had a dream?”

Dean frowns at how fascinated Castiel must have sounded at the prospect of having dreamed. He's packing stuff back into his duffel bag. His cheeks are less stubbled then yesterday, but his movements are still stiff and jerky. Castiel stares at Dean's hands, overcome with the sudden and confusing desire to hold them in his, hold them still.

“That's never happened before?” Dean is asking, zipping his bag closed.

Castiel shakes his head. “No.” He frowns thoughtfully as he tries to recollect what it was he dreamed about. Shadows, he thinks, and loud and unintelligible voices. “I believe it was a nightmare.”

Dean throws Castiel a look, an expression of intense regret on his face. He picks up the towel he had thrown down on the bed, looks down at where his fingers are fiddling with its hem.

“Sorry man,” he says, “That's—” He cuts himself off, looks down and licks his lips, then clears his throat. “Anyway, if you wanna shower, do it now. Check-out's soon.”

>

The air in the bathroom is still warm and humid.

It feels strange to stand in the shower stall and know that Dean stood in this exact spot, naked. A peculiar heat pools low in his gut at the thought, and pleasure tingles up his spine when he washes between his legs. Even after he's done in the bathroom, the unfamiliar buzz under his skin won't fade.

Maybe it's just the need for nourishment that is steadily growing into a full blown ache.

When Castiel comes back into the room, Dean is standing by the windows, an unreadable expression on his face. He's already put on his jacket and his shoulders are tense. His bag is sitting on the bed, the travel guide book is back on the nightstand on Castiel's side.

The salt and goofer dust lines are gone from the window sill, and even on the carpet the lines are barely visible anymore.

Dean turns towards Castiel, his face closed off when he asks, “Ready to go?”

In the parking lot, Dean hesitates for a moment in front of a dark green box-shaped car, then walks past it and right up to the Impala. Castiel can hear him exhale when he lays a hand flat on her roof, and holds the keys out to Dean.

Dean sits down behind the wheel, slots the key in the ignition and turns it while Castiel watches anxiously.

The Impala roars to life immediately, as if yesterday never happened.

Dean squints at the dashboard, then looks up at Castiel with raised eyebrows.

“The tank's almost full. The hell were you talking about?”

Castiel stares at the car in utter confusion.

“I—don't understand.”

Dean huffs and shakes his head.

“Whatever. Get in and let's get something to eat.”

Dean is frowning and running a hand over the gash in the leather when Castiel sinks down in the passenger seat and closes the door on his side.

“Um... That happened when Hael—I'm sorry, Dean.”

Dean looks like he's about to say something, but then just sighs and steers the car out of the parking lot and onto the street.

Castiel feels strange to be sitting in the passenger seat again. He watches how at ease Dean is driving his car, how some of the tension seems to leave him as he leans back in the leather seat, resting one hand on his thigh. Dean steers them effortlessly through the early morning traffic. Castiel's driving has been incredibly clumsy and uncertain in comparison. He wonders if, with more practice, he could get just as good at it. He thinks it would make him feel proud.

Pale sunlight is filtering through the clouds when Dean parks in the parking lot of the first diner that comes into view. When Castiel exits the car, the air is still cool and smells faintly like water. Maybe it will rain later.

Castiel orders scrambled eggs with hash browns and a coffee, and after a moment of hesitation, Dean orders the same.

When their waitress leaves, Castiel takes a moment to look around. Since he never had anyone to talk to, it's become habit to him to observe his surroundings. And because he used to believe all food was alike and that it all tasted digustingly like molecules, he had never paid attention to diners or other establishments that were focused on nourishment.

This diner doesn't appear to be part of a chain. Castiel has been to several of those, and they looked disturbingly alike, though they brought the advantage of always offering the same exact choices. At first Castiel had found that reassuring, until he discovered it was also boring. Boredom in itself was something new to him, and he found he certainly didn't like it.

He would have expected it to be different now that Dean is with him. But Dean is still as quiet and distracted as he was when Castiel awoke this morning. He's sitting opposite Castiel, but just like last night, he might as well be miles away. He's cradling the coffee mug in one hand and his eyes are flickering around nervously. The mug is chipped and the watery sunlight from outside catches on the sharp teeth of the zipper of Dean's jacket's. The shadows under his eyes are just as dark as when Castiel knocked on his door yesterday. He wonders if Dean slept at all last night.

Castiel only becomes aware he's staring when Dean notices Castiel's eyes on him and becomes oddly bashful in reaction, coloring slightly, ducking his head, and clearing his throat. He appears relieved when their food arrives a moment later, keeping his head down and stabbing his fork into his eggs repeatedly, but not making any attempt to eat them.

Castiel concentrates on his own food in the hope that Dean will relax again. It's better than most of the diner food he's had over the last couple weeks, but still. “I miss homemade food,” he grumbles, surprising himself with how wistful he sounds.

Dean stops pushing his breakfast around on his plate and finally lifts his head. There's some light behind his eyes for the first time today and the corners of his mouth tug up with an almost smile. “You and me both,” he says, his tone light, but a shadow of pain flashes over his face and then his expression becomes carefully controlled again.

Castiel swallows his mouthful of hash browns with difficulty, his chest feeling painfully constricted.

Dean is sitting so close Castiel could touch his cheek if he reached out, but his emotions are locked away behind his eyes.

He's putting up a front, and Castiel doesn't know how to get past it.

Castiel thinks of the smile that had stretched Dean's mouth when he asked Cas if he had tried pie yet, of the dark circles under his eyes Castiel had never questioned, and feels guilty and frustratingly helpless.

Dean is finally shoveling several forkfuls of egg into his mouth, asking whilst he chews, “So, spill, how was your road trip? Did you go full Americana?”

Castiel frowns at him in confusion. “I wasn't sight-seeing, Dean.”

Dean rolls his eyes, then motions with his fork. “Humor me.”

Castiel sighs, not really understanding why this appears so important to Dean. But then he finds himself telling Dean about his first night in the car, the sad looking waitress, the child that waved at him, his bizarre encounter with Crowley. Dean makes a face when Castiel explains how the homeless man had warned him of aliens, and there's a soft warmth in his eyes when Castiel talks about how happy it had made him when the little girl waved and smiled at him.

There's finally color in Dean's cheeks again, and both their plates are scraped clean by the time Castiel is finished. Dean orders more coffee for them and Castiel leans back in his seat. It felt good to share his experiences, but he can't help but feel like he's accomplished very little when he's actually supposed to fix his mistakes.

He voices that thought to Dean, guiltily knowing that he's doing so because he's looking for reassurance from his friend.

Dean puts his mug down and rests his arms on the table. He leans forward a bit, an intent look in his eyes.

“Cas, listen to me. Some stuff you just gotta let go. Okay? You're doing your best. I know how tempting it is to try and find that one big switch that'll make everything right again—believe me, I know—but sometimes we gotta focus on what we can do with our own two hands.”

Castiel isn't sure he knows how to do that, but he nods and thanks Dean regardless.

Dean stays silent for a moment. He doesn't look at Castiel when he suddenly says, “You know if you stayed human, and you wanted out—I'd get it, y'know?”

Castiel eyes Dean in confusion, but Dean doesn't lift his head.

“Why are you telling me this?”

Dean shrugs, but his tone sounds anything but casual. “I'd get it if you didn't wanna be stuck with m— _us_. Maybe you haven't noticed, but I ain't exactly the best role model for how to human 101.”

Castiel frowns at Dean but Dean won't look up, his eyes focused on his hands that are playing with the salt shaker.

“I don't understand why you insist on speaking so badly about yourself.”

Dean discards the salt shaker and crosses his arms on the table. He still doesn't look up.

“Just telling it how it is, Cas.”

Castiel huffs in irritation and looks out into the parking lot. His eyes find the Impala, parked in the very back between a sleek silver car and a light blue one that has mud sprinkled all over its side, and with a rush of guilt he realizes he's forgotten to call Sam.

He searches his pockets for Dean's phone, then remembers it's out of battery.

“Dean, do you have a phone?” At Dean's questioning look, he adds. “I, um… Might have forgotten to tell Sam that I found you.”

Pain flickers through Dean's eyes, then he looks away. “Doesn't matter. It ain't gonna change anything.”

Castiel frowns at him. “Dean—”

Dean makes an irritated noise, digs his phone out of his pocket and lets it clatter onto the table carelessly. He shoves his empty mug away and stands abruptly. “Whatever. I'm gonna go hit the head.”

He turns away without looking at Castiel and walks past him, his shoulders up at his ears.

>

It takes Castiel a few moments until he remembers Sam's number. Sam picks up after only two rings.

“ _Hello?”_

“Sam, it's me. I'm—I found Dean.”

There's a crackle through the line as Sam inhales sharply.

“ _Where?”_

“A motel in Ogden, Utah. Sam, Abaddon is dead.”

There's a beat of silence from Sam's end.

“ _Is he okay?”_

There's a gush of cold air at Castiel's back when the door behind him opens. He doesn't look, his eyes trained on the scuffed leather of the seat across from him, the threadbare and sun-bleached fabric of the green checkered curtains.

“No. He's not. Sam, I don't think Dean will come back with me if you don't talk with him.”

Sam sighs. It sounds hard and prickly through the line.

“ _Cas—”_

Dean is back. He's scowling at the table, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket.

Castiel doesn't wait for Sam's reply, just holds the phone out to Dean.

“Your brother.”

Dean tenses for a moment, but then he takes the phone and sinks back down in his seat. Where a moment ago he looked wary, now he just looks exhausted. His shoulders are tense and his mouth is a thin line, like he's bracing himself for something.

“Yeah?”

The lines of Dean's body stay tense for another long moment while he listens to whatever Sam is saying on the other end, and then he seems to be sinking into himself, a blend of relief and anguish in his expression.

“Sam—”

Another silence while Dean listens, and then he sighs, closing his eyes momentarily.

“Sam, it's better this way.”

Castiel supposes the polite thing to do would be to wait outside whilst the brothers talk. But he doesn't move. The outcome of this is too important.

Dean looks like he's about to argue against whatever Sam said last, but then he just says, “Alright, fine. See you then.” He ends the call and shoves the phone back in his pocket. Then he stares at the tabletop, his hands curling around nothing.

Castiel watches him and waits.

Finally, Dean exhales, and presses his fingers against his bruised eyes.

“This is a bad idea.”

Castiel frowns. He doesn't understand, and it frustrates him.

“I don't understand. Dean, you seemed so much happier at home.”

Dean looks pained for a moment, but he just sounds tired when he says, “That doesn't matter. It'd be better for everyone if I stayed away.”

“Dean—”

Dean just shakes his head. He looks defeated. He throws some crumbled up bills on the table and gets up.

They don't talk while they get back to the car. Dean slots the key in the ignition, but doesn't turn the engine over even after Castiel has closed the door on his side. Castiel watches him stare at the dashboard for a long, tense moment, his jaw tight.

“What did you say to Sam?” Dean doesn't sound accusatory per se, but wary. His shoulders are up and his mouth a thin line like he's expecting another fight.

Castiel breathes in deeply and calmly meets Dean's eyes.

“The truth. I told him I didn't think you'd come back with me if he didn't talk to you.”

Dean scrutinizes him for another moment, his expression closed off. And then the fight seems to go out of him all at once. His gaze slips away and he slumps in his seat, the thumb of his left hand rubbing circles into the steering wheel where before he had been gripping it tightly.

Dean shifts and makes a motion as if to turn the key, but then he just lets his hand fall on his thigh again. He swallows thickly.

“He said he was out of line. That I should come home so we could—”, he makes a vague motion with one hand, “talk.”

“He _was_ out of line.”

Dean grimaces. “Cas—”

“I know what he said, Dean. Maybe you've both made mistakes. But you don't deserve to be treated that way. Not ever.” Castiel tries to put as much conviction as he can into his voice. It's not as easy as he wished it to be, because guilt is trying to claw its way up his throat as well. Yes, he had been right to be angry when Dean lied to him, but that anger was in part also fueled by the helplessness of his situation, and Dean didn't deserve to feel the brunt of it.

Castiel fidgets with his hands in his lap.

“I'm sorry about the pie, Dean.”

Dean finally raises his head and blinks at Castiel, obviously confused.

“The pie? What pie?”

Castiel doesn't dare meet Dean's eyes. He stares at the glove compartment.

“I saw it in the trash after we—after I told you I would leave.”

Dean exhales. From the corner of his vision, Castiel can see him shaking his head.

“Cas, don't worry about it. We can always—” He trails off, clears his throat. “Don't worry about it,” he repeats.

Castiel nods mutely.

Dean shifts beside him, before finally turning the engine on. They're on the interstate by the time Castiel gets his thoughts back in order to ask, “Do you remember why you went outside?” When Dean throws him a confused look, he adds, “When I found you outside after you and Sam had your—disagreement. You were so out of it. You really scared me, Dean.”

Dean doesn't answer for a long moment. When Castiel looks over at him, he appears oddly uncomfortable, almost embarrassed. He keeps looking at the road, but his eyes are flickering around as if looking for something. He clears his throat, and the hand he had kept on his thigh moves up to his chest until he appears to become aware of what he's doing and puts it on the steering wheel instead, fingers clenching and unclenching around it.

“Uh—no? Not really. Can't even remember getting back inside and to my room.”

“I carried you,” Castiel supplies helpfully.

“You—”

Dean throws him a wide-eyed, almost panicked look. The tips of his ears are pink. The sight makes Castiel strangely happy, and he doesn't try very hard to suppress his smile. Dean turns back to the road, sounding grouchy when he says, “You know what, this conversation is over.” His cheeks look heated as well, even though he appears to be trying very hard to look grumpy. His hands fumble when he grabs a tape from the box between the front seats and slots it into the tape deck.

Leaning back in his seat, Castiel basks in the warm happiness he feels just from watching Dean, from having him beside him. It's like a buzz under his skin, making his heart beat faster and his fingers tingle with the urge to reach out and—do what? He isn't sure. It's a confusing feeling, but pleasant in the way it makes him feel warm all over.

The tape that Dean fished out of the box without looking says _Bob Seger_ at the front in faded blocky handwriting. Halfway through the second song, Dean seems to relax as well. He shifts his weight and puts one hand on his thigh again.

It starts to rain heavily at some point, and although he slept better the previous night than he had in days, the sound of the rain against the roof and the windshield lulls Castiel to sleep. It's not very deep, and he's vaguely aware he's dreaming. He can't make out anything except vague shapes of light, but he's holding something in his arms that's heavy and warm.

He wakes up when the car stops moving and blinks outside in confusion. To his right, cars keep driving by on the highway, and to his left is a gas station. He's looked up just in time to see Dean duck back out into the rain, shoulders hunched and collar turned up against the rain. He's visibly shivering when he gets back inside the car and drops a plastic wrapped sandwich in Castiel's lap. Dean steers the car back on the road with one hand while sipping coffee from a styrofoam cup, grimacing at the taste of it.

Yet again, Castiel is hit with a dizzying sense of déjà vu, remembering that first night of having fallen and sitting in the car with Dean beside him. Despite his situation, he'd felt comforted then. He remembers that feeling—warm and safe—and he is feeling that way now too, but there's an edge of frustration to it, like it's not quite enough anymore. He'd thought it was just the loneliness that he'd never felt so strongly before, or the guilt. But now, with Dean two feet away from him and yet not close enough, he feels it's something else. Something related only to Dean, and to Castiel's urge to reach out and feel Dean's warmth and the beat of his heart under his hands.

Somehow, despite everything that's happened, he and Dean have managed to deepen instead of lose the emotional intimacy they've built. But this— desire he's experiencing feels different than the desire to share his thoughts and emotions with Dean. He wishes he had the courage to ask Dean if he knows what it is. To ask Dean if he feels like this as well, if he knows how it could be fixed.

Castiel only becomes aware he's staring at Dean, lost in his own head, or perhaps his heart, when Dean finally notices and throws him a confused look.

“Something wrong?”

Castiel blinks, and quickly averts his eyes.

“I'm—no. It's fine.”

It's not fine. His hands are restless and his mouth is tingly. He licks his lips, but that only makes it worse. He thinks of his dream, of the nebulous sensation of holding something close, and feels miserably desolate.

From the edge of his vision, he can see Dean frowning at him, but Dean must decide not to push, for he does not ask again. He reaches over instead and switches the station, “You should eat, you'll feel better.”

For lack of anything better to do—and because he does feel hungry, though not for food—Castiel eats the sandwich. He feels warmer after, but not better.

>

When they stop for the night, Castiel offers to go ahead and get them rooms. Dean is still bent over the weapons compartment in the trunk. He's been staring down at it for a solid minute now, almost motionless, like he knows he won't need anything but the gun and the knife he's already carrying on himself, but is still unable to turn away.

“Huh? Yeah, sure.” Dean sounds distracted. He digs through his pockets until he comes up with a small wad of cash that he hands to Castiel without meeting his eyes.

Dean looks lost, his hands flexing at his sides. After one last moment of hesitation, Castiel leaves him in the parking lot. Inside, he asks for one room with two beds. He feels bad about going behind Dean's back like this, but it feels like he has no other choice if he wants to keep Dean safe. Castiel doesn't want to be alone, and Dean shouldn't be.

Dean grumbles a bit about sharing a room again, and when Castiel declares he's going to get something to eat he says he isn't hungry. Castiel frowns at him in reprimand, but Dean either doesn't notice or doesn't care. He's slumped down on the bed closest to the door, his gun beside him, the sleek silver and ebony a stark contrast to the mud and ash color of the bedspread. He's massaging his temples and mumbles something about lying down for a bit, so Castiel takes his trenchcoat and pockets his keycard and steps back outside alone.

It's stopped raining, and a handful of stars are visible in the gaps between the heavy clouds. Even though Castiel would rather have Dean come with him, he enjoys the exercise and the cool fresh air. They stopped at a red light while driving to the motel, and Castiel spotted a place offering Thai food across the street. It looked inviting and there was a sign in the window proclaiming that they offered take-out.

He feels excited at the prospect of trying food he hasn't had before, and is then hit by a pang of loss that if he finds his Grace again he will lose these simple joys that have come to mean so much to him.

Hunger in itself is unpleasant, but sating a hunger is an incredible feeling he never could have imagined.

Castiel ends up deciding to stay and eat at the restaurant and bring something back for Dean. If Dean is sleeping, he'd only wake him up if he went back right away.

Finding himself, once again, overwhelmed at the choices, Castiel asks his waiter for help. The man is young and has a friendly smile and doesn't seem to mind Castiel's awkward questions. He recommends the pad see ew and the pad thai to him and shows him pictures of the dishes. Since both look delicious, Castiel decides to try the first and take the second back to Dean.

When his food arrives, he forgets everything around him for a while simply because it tastes _so good_. He only wishes Dean were here so he could share this with him. He wonders if Dean could cook this for him if he asked. He thinks he could eat it everyday. Well maybe not every day, but maybe when it's cold and he is sad.

He stops eating for a moment then, feeling embarrassed and guilty at his own thoughts. What about his priorities—his mission to get his people home, his atonement for his mistakes?

They're still important to him, and he knows he ought to be focusing exclusively on them. But they're not what he, selfishly, wants for himself.

He wants to learn more about what being human means. He's already learned that sometimes, it means hunger and cold and loneliness. It means chaos, and being overwhelmed. Being weak.

But it also means soft beds, and hot showers, and warm food, and feeling true joy. It means desires for things he can't quite name.

Castiel is distracted with those thoughts when he walks back, and when he enters their room it takes him a moment to realize Dean isn't there.

He panics for a second until he spots Dean's bag at the side of the bed he'd sat down on earlier. The Impala was in the parking lot as well, so Dean will probably be back soon. At least Castiel hopes it will be soon, or the take-out will go cold.

He can't find anything on TV he feels like watching, and for lack of anything better to do he finally settles back against the headboard of his bed and opens the travel guide book. He flips pages until he finds where he last stopped, and continues reading from there.

“ _On the banks of the Colorado, which seems deceptively small in front of massive cliffs, one might muse on how long it took the river to saw its way through stone to reach its depth. In the answer lies perhaps the most surprising paradox of the Grand Canyon. For while the canyon is often thought of as being very ancient, indeed almost eternal, it is, in contrast to the rock it exposes, very young. By some estimates, it has taken the Colorado a mere four million years to carve the canyon, a nearly insignificant amount of time in comparison to the age of the earth, or indeed of other features on the planet, such as most mountain ranges.”_

He's read ten more pages by the time the lock clicks and Dean shuffles back inside their room. Castiel looks up and their eyes meet briefly, but Dean's gaze quickly falls away and to the floor. He mumbles something about just having needed some air, but he's visibly shivering when he sits down on the side of his bed, his back to Castiel.

Castiel watches Dean's broad back for a moment, the way his shoulders are visibly hunched under his many layers. He'd thought with giving Dean time and space he was giving him what he needed to open up about what is weighing on him, but perhaps that was wrong.

There are neither salt nor goofer dust lines at the door or windows. Castiel had taken that as a good sign, but now he isn't so sure. Dean takes off his boots and cards a hand through his hair, leaving it standing up in messy spikes. Weariness is etched into each of his movements. He's still putting up a front but it's crumbling.

Castiel closes the book and sets it on the nightstand, then comes over and sits down beside Dean.

Dean looks up, surprise and something akin to fear in his eyes, and he goes completely still when Castiel reaches out and takes both of Dean's hands in his, in the way he's been wanting to do for so long.

“What are you—”

Dean's eyes widen and then his cheeks go pink. He makes to withdraw and stand up, but Castiel stops him with a hand to his chest. He sets on explaining himself but then Dean hisses in pain and flinches away from Castiel's hand.

Castiel frowns at him. “You're hurt.” He lets go of Dean's other hand and shoves his jacket further open, tugs up his t-shirt despite Dean's half-hearted protests. There's a patch of gauze bigger than Castiel's hand taped to Dean's chest, but it can't fully cover the claw marks stretching from his collar bone on his left down to the ribs on his right. They've started to heal but the skin around the marks is still angry red and bruised. They're shallow enough not to have been life-threatening, but they must have bled significantly and are obviously causing Dean a lot of pain. And he hasn't said a single word.

“ _Dean_ —"

Dean angrily bats Castiel's hand away, shoving his t-shirt back down.

“It's no big deal, Cas.”

He makes to shift away and get up again, but Castiel puts his hands on Dean's shoulders. Holds him still, tries to catch his eyes.

“Dean, talk to me. _Please_.”

Dean appears to fight with himself for a moment, but then his shoulders sink under Castiel's hands and he curls up over his chest.

“Didn't get out the way fast enough when we trapped Abaddon. It's no big deal, Cas. It ain't that deep.”

Castiel watches the lines on Dean's face deepen as he shifts, how stiffly he holds himself.

“You're in pain,” he says, unable to keep the anger and frustration out of his face. Dean just shrugs one shoulder in reply. He's still not meeting Castiel's eyes. His hands are curled in his lap, lax, empty.

Castiel swallows painfully.

“Dean, tell me what's going on. _Please_. Tell me why you thought—why you think you need to stay away from everyone.”

Dean is silent. Castiel takes his hands off his shoulders. He almost reaches out and takes Dean's hands in his again, but this time he doesn't dare.

When he finally speaks, Dean's voice is low and scratchy.

“I was so damn stupid. I didn't want anyone else to go and fight and die. I'm a stupid selfish asshole who always gets people hurt. I—”

Dean is clearly aiming the sharp points of these words at himself, but Castiel feels pain spread through himself while he listens, starting from his heart and spreading out to the tips of his fingers.

“Dean, that isn't true. Please don't say this about yourself.”

Dean carries on as if he hasn't even heard Castiel speak.

“Either I don't care enough or I care too much. I'm fucked up, I can't find the middle ground anymore.”

Dean's voice is getting increasingly rough. He blinks erratically and swallows. His eyelashes are wet, and Castiel's heart gives a painful lurch.

“As long as you were all home you were all safe, and nobody would die.” His voice breaks through the last word. Dean closes his eyes and pitches forward, leans his head on Castiel's shoulder and breathes harshly against Castiel's dress shirt. A shudder goes through Dean and Castiel can feel where his shirt is getting wet. He doesn't know what to do. He's never been in a situation like this before.

Hesitantly, Castiel rests the palm of one hand on the back of Dean's neck, and starts rubbing the other up and down Dean's back. Dean tenses against him momentarily and makes a noise like a sob he doesn't manage to bite back fast enough. Castiel leans his head against Dean's.

“Dean, the last thing you could be is uncaring. If you were stupid it was for the right reasons. It's okay if you're sad. It's okay.”

Dean's breath hitches and he leans more heavily against him. Castiel keeps rubbing his back and waits, hoping that he is doing this right, that Dean can derive at least a small measure of comfort from the contact.

Finally, Dean's breathing evens out and he extracts himself from Castiel's arms. He keeps his head low and rubs at his face. Then he gets up and walks past Castiel, retreats to the bathroom and closes the door behind himself. The lock clicks shut, and then there's the faint sound of running water.

Castiel keeps sitting on Dean's bed for a moment longer. He feels bereft without the weight of Dean's body against him. His shirt is uncomfortably wet at the shoulder, and since it's getting late he supposes he might as well change into sleeping clothes. His hands are clumsy and he can't quite concentrate on what they're doing. He almost takes all the clothes out of his bag while trying to find his sleeping shirt and pants, and haphazardly crams everything back in after, not paying attention to whether or not he's mixing his dirty clothes in with his clean ones.

Dean has taken off his jacket when he comes out the bathroom again. He lets it fall onto his bed and then walks over to stand by the window, avoiding Castiel's eyes the entire time. He holds himself like his limbs weigh a ton and his hair looks wet above his nape.

Castiel watches Dean for a moment, watches him stare outside and run a hand over the empty windowsill.

“Do you still hear them?”

Dean blinks as if coming out of a trance, glancing at Castiel briefly.

“Huh? Oh you mean the—” He gestures vaguely at his head, then sighs. “Nah—I mean, yeah, sometimes. But it's just a thing. Like after Purgatory—” Dean cuts himself off and turns away, picking up the plastic bag with the styrofoam container of take-out, “It's just my fucked up brain making me hear things. It's gonna go away eventually. Is that yours?”

It takes Castiel a moment to realize what Dean is talking about and then he shakes his head. “It's for you. But I don't know if it's still warm.”

Dean sits down at the end of his bed, the container on his knees, and starts poking the plastic fork in it, “Thanks for, you know. Getting this even though I said I wasn't hungry.” Dean looks at him briefly. He doesn't quite smile, but his gratefulness shines through the exhaustion he's radiating. His eyes are warm and tired and red-rimmed.

There's no steam coming from the food, so it can't be more than lukewarm anymore. Dean eats it anyway, and Castiel thinks that back when he was an angel he wouldn't even have paid that any mind. But now, he can't help but think how Dean had looked the happiest that first time they were all in the bunker's kitchen together and eating the food Dean had cooked. And now, he's sitting on a lumpy mattress in yet another cheap motel room and eating cold take-out.

Dean eventually catches him staring. He chews and frowns, “What?” When Castiel can't think of an answer fast enough, Dean's frown deepens. “Is this about um, you know—earlier? 'Cause I'm fine. It's not gonna happen again, promise.”

Castiel feels his own features shift into a frown as well at that.

“It's—why would you feel like you need to promise that? I told you it's okay if you're sad. It's understandable.”

Dean scoffs at that, shakes his head. “Yeah, right.” He pokes his fork into the remaining food a couple times but doesn't lift it to his mouth.

Castiel is still frowning at him but Dean is stubbornly keeping his head down. “Dean, I think that we all—me, Sam, Kevin—we needed you to be okay and overlooked that you obviously weren't. Of course it's understandable that at some point—”

“Cas, let's just go to sleep, okay?” Dean puts his only half-eaten meal aside, rubs a hand over his face. “I'm just really, _really_ tired.” He grabs his bag without waiting for an answer and locks himself in the bathroom again.

By the time he's come out again and Castiel is done brushing his teeth, Dean has turned off the main light and is lying curled up on his side on the edge of his bed, fully clothed, his back to Castiel. The only remaining light is coming from the lamp on Castiel's nightstand. The one on Dean's is dark.

Castiel arranges the covers to his satisfaction, and then his hand hesitates over the switch that would turn off the light.

“Do you want me to leave the light on?”

Dean doesn't move, doesn't turn around to face him, but mumbles something like “don't care”. Castiel hesitates for another moment, then turns the lamp off.

He usually doesn't sleep on his front, always on his back or side. It doesn't feel right to turn his back to Dean, so he rolls onto his right side. Even though, in the absence of light, Dean is nothing more than another vague shape in the dark.

Castiel's feet feel a bit cold. His hands do, too. He thinks of Dean's hands, and what they had looked like, gripping the sheets while he slept. That thought makes him feel warmer, and he tries to follow that warmth to its core, look at its roots and at what is blooming from them.

He's still on his way there when he falls asleep.

>

There's nothingness and calm and then slowly awareness filters in. The covers are bunched up at his legs, and one of his arms feels numb.

He blinks his eyes open to see pale morning sunlight bathe the motel room in watery gray. The digital clock on the nightstand tells him it's barely past 5 a.m., and he's about to close his eyes and roll onto his other side when he becomes aware that Dean is awake.

Holding his head in one hand, Dean has one leg on the floor and one on the bed. He's lost his flannel, and his spine is a long bowed line under his black t-shirt.

Castiel sits up clumsily, runs a hand through his hair and frowns at him.

“Dean?”

For a long moment, it seems like Dean didn't even hear him. When he briefly meets Castiel's eyes, the vulnerable look in them makes Castiel go still.

Dean hangs his head. His eyes keep flickering around even though his gaze is turned to the floor.

“You gotta stop looking at me like that, man.”

Dean's voice is quiet and brittle. Castiel watches the lines on his face deepen with tired sadness, the way his right hand is fidgeting at his side.

“I don't understand.”

Dean only sinks further into himself.

“Like I got all the answers,” he says. “Like I can fix things.”

Dean swallows and finally turns to look at Castiel. He's pale and his eyes are wide with fear.

“But you're wrong,Cas... I don't. I can't.”

Dean looks and sounds like he's in pain, and Castiel can't bear it. He wants nothing more but to take the pain away. Dean is sitting two feet from him, and it's too far. He _needs_ Dean to be closer.

He needs Dean to not feel pain. Needs him to be soothed, and comforted.

Castiel struggles out of the covers, rises from his bed, sits down beside Dean, cradles the back of his head in both hands and presses his mouth against Dean's.

Dean goes still.

His mouth is warm, and surprisingly soft. Castiel must have closed his eyes at some point without being aware of it. Sensation flashes through him from the point where their mouths touch. It's making his heart stutter, his skin flush with heat. The contact lasts a mere few seconds before Dean abruptly draws back, their lips separating with a soft sound.

Castiel opens his eyes, his heart in his throat as he realizes what he's done. He withdraws his hands from Dean's head.

Dean is staring at him with wide open eyes. His mouth is slightly open, he seems speechless. His cheeks are flushed.

Castiel's eyes are drawn back down to Dean's mouth, and Dean seems to find his voice again, croaking, “Cas, what… What are you doing?”

“I'm—,” Castiel thinks about it for a moment. He feels strangely lightheaded. “Kissing you,” he concludes. He leans forward again, brushes his mouth against Dean's. Dean inhales sharply and then leans away.

“Wait, wait—Cas!” Dean turns his head to the side, licks his lips. He holds up a hand. “Cas, you can't just—do that to, um...” Dean takes a deep breath, visibly struggling to calm himself down. “Like, comfort people. It's... You can't do that.”

“I wasn't. I mean—” Castiel grips fistfuls of the sheets in agitation. He needs Dean to understand, but he doesn't know how to explain.

Dean turns further away from him. He swallows. “It's okay, you were just—you're confused. You didn't mean it.” Dean is visibly closing himself off. His eyes are glassy. He makes as if to get up and move away when Castiel grips his shoulder.

“Dean—”

Dean looks pained, but he lets Castiel stop him. He blinks his eyes and sets his jaw. “What, Cas?” It comes out flat and biting, but even Dean's anger sounds tired and forced.

“I did want to make you feel better. But I also—I wanted...” Castiel flounders for words for a moment. His heart is picking up speed again and his palms are sweating. His voice is as hoarse as if he had been screaming and it doesn't make sense. “I wanted you closer. Wanted to—feel you.”

Castiel feels despair at his inability to explain. There aren't words to describe his need to share more with Dean than words, his desire to make Dean understand how important he is.

Dean's eyes flicker to his, and Castiel sees some of his own desperation reflected back at him, tinged with confusion. “Cas, where is this coming from?” Dean sounds almost as hoarse as him, and his breath is coming too fast for how still he's sitting.

Castiel tries and fails to find the right words for another moment, and then decides to give up on them.

Instead, he takes his hand off Dean's shoulder and puts it flat over his own heart, right where it ached when Dean was gone.

“Here.”

Dean's eyes go wide.

“I've missed you, Dean.”

Dean stares at him for a moment longer. Then he swallows, puts his face in his hands. Rubs his forehead, “Jesus Christ, Cas.”

Dean gets up, starts moving towards the window but then stops. His broad shoulders are tense all over again and there's a conflicted look on his face when he turns halfway around.

“The last time I saw you before this whole mess happened, you were ready to go back to Heaven and slam the door in my face! And now you, you tell me—” Dean licks his lips, visibly swallows back whatever he was about to say.

Castiel's shoulders slump.

“Yes,” he admits. He can imagine how hard it must be for Dean to trust him with this, but he can't help trying to explain himself. “I thought I—that I knew how I felt. That I knew what was righteous. But now I've realized there is no righteous path.” He looks up at Dean, who is staring at him with an unreadable expression. “Just people trying to do their best, in a world where it is far too easy to do your worst.”

Dean grimaces, turns his face away. But when Castiel comes over to him and touches his arm just above his elbow, he lets himself be turned back around.

“You taught me that, Dean. I just wasn't listening.”

Dean scoffs, doesn't meet his eyes. But he hasn't moved away, has let Castiel in close.

Castiel swallows, makes sure his voice is pitched low and gentle when he asks, “Would you listen to _me_ , now?”

Dean glances at him, then nods. His eyes are wide with fear again, and it makes Castiel feel terribly sad that the prospect of someone feeling love for him can make Dean so afraid.

Castiel trails his hand down Dean's arm until he finds his hand and loosely tangles their fingers together.

Dean closes his eyes and swallows, but he doesn't turn away.

Castiel leans in to touch his mouth to Dean's again, feels his heart pick up speed again at the hitch in Dean's breathing. Dean's breath is already hitting his skin, moist and hot, when doubt makes him hesitate. “It's… Dean, do you—”

His words are cut off when Dean leans forward. Castiel's eyes slide shut and when Dean opens his mouth under his, he finds himself crowding closer to him, pressing inside insistently. With his lack of experience, it must be clumsy and uncoordinated. But all he feels is pleasure, _possessiveness_ , as his other hand blindly finds Dean's side and trails down to his hip.

Dean gasps and then draws back, but not far enough for Castiel's hands to fall away. When Castiel opens his eyes, Dean looks as dazed as he feels. His pupils are blown and he repeatedly licks his lips.

“Wow—um. Okay.” Dean is smiling at him, but his voice is wobbling with uncertainty.

Castiel wants to reassure him, but his mind is still locked on how Dean had felt against him, on how vulnerable Dean is letting himself be right now, and he is too slow to react.

Dean's smile falls away.

“This was a bad idea, wasn't it? It was a bad idea.” His shoulders curl over his chest and he hides his face behind a hand.

“Dean—” Castiel tries to get Dean to look at him again, but Dean is already closing himself off.

"No, it's… I get it. We really—this is the worst timing ever.” Dean chuckles once, humorlessly. He withdraws his hand from his face and sniffs. “There's so much crap going on and neither of us know where we're gonna be three days from now, so...” His voice is rough and threadbare. He gestures vaguely with one hand and shrugs, determinedly avoiding Castiel's eyes.

Deciding to work on instinct, Castiel comes forward and embraces him. Dean goes briefly tense but then becomes pliant. His hands hover uncertainly over Castiel's sides before he hesitantly curls them into Castiel's t-shirt. His grip is weak, and Castiel can feel where his heart is beating erratically. He's radiating warmth, his weight in Castiel's arms feels both familiar and precious, and the words blurt out of Castiel before he knows what he's saying.

“Dean, can't we just have this?”

He can feel him swallow, and then Dean draws away from the embrace. There's conflict and confusion in the way he searches Castiel's eyes, so Castiel decides to try and make it easier for him.

“Do you want this?”

Dean grimaces. “Cas, that. It doesn't matter.”

Castiel frowns at him. “It does.”

Dean looks pained, but he nods. “I do. Want that. I—yeah.” Dean fumbles with his hands and his words for another moment, then falls into an awkward silence.

Castiel sighs, feeling tension leave his body. “Okay.”

Dean shoots him a disbelieving, almost despairing look. “Okay?” he echoes. “Cas, wanting things doesn't change nothing. It doesn't mean you get them, that you—yeah. It doesn't fix anything.” He makes a helpless looking gesture with his hand.

Castiel holds his gaze. Determination is coursing through him, calming his heartbeat and deepening his breathing. For the first time in a long time, he feels sure of something.

“Maybe not,” he replies, softly. “But I—Dean, I'm willing to fight for us to have this.”

Dean's expression melts into fondness, but he sounds sad.

“I'm tired of fighting, Cas.”

Working on instinct, Castiel steps closer and puts a hand on Dean's arm.

“You're not going to be alone. Not this time.” He gently squeezes Dean's arm, who is mutely searching Castiel's eyes. “Think about it?”

There's a twinge in his heart at the thought that Dean might say no. Might step away and choose protecting his heart over opening it. Castiel couldn't blame him if he did, but he can already feel the sadness and disappointment hover if that were to happen.

Dean is quiet for a moment longer, and then his stance relaxes minutely. He doesn't meet Castiel's eyes and there's a shy, shaky smile on his face when he says, haltingly, “I'm—I'm scared of walking out of this room and never, uh, feeling the rest of my whole life the way I feel when I'm with you.”

Castiel stares at him, stuck speechless and unsure how to react to such a sentiment being directed at himself. Dean eyes him nervously, an embarrassed flush on his cheeks.

“That's, um. Very romantic, Dean. Thank you.”

Dean rolls his eyes, the pink on his cheeks becoming more pronounced.

“ _Jesus_ , Cas. It's a quote, it's—nevermind.” He shakes his head, then grimaces. “But, it's. I mean it. Y'know?” He shifts his weight, his whole body radiating his uncertainty. He's leaning into Castiel's hand on his arm, and that, even more than his words, makes Castiel feel reassured.

“Okay,” he says, finding that he's smiling. “Then we—we try.”

Dean mirrors his smile, huffs out a breathless laugh. He still looks uncertain, but there's finally more light behind his eyes.

“Yeah, we—yeah.” His eyes look wet. Dean rubs both his hands over his face, then shakes his head. “ _Jesus_. Let's get outta here.”

>

The morning is all around around, the light blue and clear. Inside the Impala, the sounds of the road are muted.

They're driving home.

Castiel is watching the road ahead while leaning back against the familiar leather of the passenger seat. He's feeling calm and safe right now, but he's aware that Dean is right. Not everything is fixed. Neither between him and Dean, nor between Dean and his brother. The future of Heaven and of the fallen angels remains unclear. Some things they might not be able to fix at all.

He's still not quite sure what his journey has taught him. Who and what exactly he is now.

Dean leans over, fiddles with the radio and changes the station. He must like the song he finds, because there's a soft smile on his face. He puts one hand on his thigh and taps the rhythm with his fingers.

Castiel still isn't that well versed with music genres, but he thinks it's some kind of power ballad.

Dean catches him looking, but this time, instead of hiding his joy, his smile grows brighter. It's making the corners of his eyes crinkle. He looks rumpled and sleep-soft, and Castiel feels the tingles of fondness and desire right down to his toes. It's an exhilarating feeling, and he never wants it to stop.

Dean throws him a confused look. “You okay? You look a little—” He gestures vaguely, then appears to realize something.

“Are you cold? We can crank up the heat.”

Castiel shakes his head, but Dean is already reaching for his hand, squeezing it briefly.

“Dude, you're like a furnace.” Dean looks and sounds very surprised.

Castiel's hands do indeed feel pleasantly warm. Strange, he hadn't even noticed.

He catches Dean's hand before he can withdraw it, rubs a thumb over its back.

“Thank you.”

Dean looks puzzled. Then faces the road again, a blush on his cheeks.

Their hands remain between them on the car seat, close enough that their fingers touch.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> A moon dog, moondog, or mock moon, (scientific name paraselene, plural paraselenae, meaning "beside the moon") is a relatively rare bright circular spot on a lunar halo caused by the refraction of moonlight by hexagonal-plate-shaped ice crystals in cirrus or cirrostratus clouds
> 
> Moon dogs appear as part of the 22° halo, roughly 10 Moon diameters outside the Moon.They are exactly analogous to sun dogs, but are rarer because the Moon must be bright, about quarter moon or more, for the moon dogs to be observed. Moon dogs show little color to the unaided human eye because their light is not bright enough to activate the cone cells. ([source](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Moon_dog)) 
> 
> The descriptions of the Grand Canyon aren't from The Complete Travel Guide, but from a beautiful book called Desertlands Of America by J.A. Kraulis, published 1988.
> 
> What Dean quotes to Cas is part of something Baby says to Johnny in Dirty Dancing “Me? I’m scared of everything. I’m scared of what I saw, I’m scared of what I did, of who I am, and most of all I’m scared of walking out of this room and never feeling the rest of my whole life the way I feel when I’m with you.” 
> 
> Poetry at the beginning is my own.
> 
> Please remember to leave my artist feedback [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8640610) !
> 
> Find me on tumblr at [cuddlemonsterdean](http://cuddlemonsterdean.tumblr.com/)


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